


The Keys to the Star Affair

by MariaPriest



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Episode Tag, Episode: s02e07 The Arabian Affair, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 43,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26860561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MariaPriest/pseuds/MariaPriest
Summary: Despite Kuryakin's injury, he and Napoleon are sent on a vital mission. Only Kuryakin can get the code key needed for a major operation, and Solo must protect him at all costs on their journey back to New York City.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo
Comments: 8
Kudos: 21





	The Keys to the Star Affair

“Napoleon, do you know how hard it was to shake off that horrid woman? I can’t believe you betrayed me!” Illya Kuryakin snapped angrily over his tightly crossed arms.

“Mr. Kuryakin, please remain calm, or at least still,” demanded the nurse ministering to his leg wound. “I can’t get it cleaned out properly and bandaged if you continue to move about.” She brushed back with the back of her wrist a lock of light brown hair that had fallen onto her forehead. Then, looking into her patient’s intense blue eyes, she didn’t feel quite as perturbed with him and decided not to scold him so harshly next time he fidgeted.

“Sorry, nurse,” Kuryakin replied sheepishly, lowering his head slightly toward her in a gesture of repentance. “I was not aware I had begun moving again.” He faced his partner again. Both his anger and agitation swelled, however, when he saw the self-satisfied smirk on his partner’s face. “Napoleon! I’m serious! Sophie was…” he searched for the right word in English “…unsufferable!” By now, the nurse had stopped her work and stood, gloved hands on hips, and glared at the two men.

Napoleon Solo, always eager to correct his Russian partner’s English, said, “I think you mean ‘ _in_ sufferable, Illya,” in his most didactic manner. One arm across his chest and the other vertical so he could touch his lips with his finger and then almost point the words to Illya, he continued, “How was I supposed to know? I hadn’t really had a chance to speak with you, she and her father seemed like nice people. When she said you belonged to her, well, I didn’t want to cause any sort of international incident by insulting her people’s customs. I had no idea she had knifed you and was planning to trade you for a camel.” He put on his best innocent expression.

“Napoleon,” Kuryakin hissed through gritted teeth, “you will pay for this.” He put on his best cold, threatening stare.

Napoleon decided to risk goading his friend more -- after all, his leg wound had slowed him a bit, and that nurse was not likely to let him up until she was ready to let him up. “Uh, I’m afraid Mr. Waverly already has. At least it’s nice to know you’re worth two camels, three horses, other assorted small livestock, and some gold pieces. He is _not_ pleased. You know, this really wrecks the budget for this month. Plus getting yourself hurt -- and by a woman, too.” He somberly shook his head and cast his dark brown eyes downward.

He almost did not see the pillow coming at him -- Illya was that fast. He swiveled so that only the edge of the soft projectile touched him. Solo was thankful nothing hard was within Kuryakin’s reach.

“Enough!” interjected the nurse as she snapped off her gloves. “Mr. Solo, get out of here _now_. Mr. Kuryakin’s injury needs to be tended, and I am going to do it without any distractions from you. And _you_ , Mr. Kuryakin, _will_ lie still.” She put on her best commanding expression.

“Yes, of course, nurse, very sorry, please get on with your work” Solo mumbled. As he turned to leave Illya’s bedside, he mouthed to him, “Later!” Kuryakin, not fully cowed by the formidable woman, persisted in staring at Napoleon until he left the room. “Please excuse my partner and me again, nurse,” the Russian agent said as he watched her put on a fresh pair of gloves. “He really doesn’t know any better. Please continue. I am anxious to return to New York and to work.”

“I’m afraid, Mr. Kuryakin, that it may be awhile before you return to work.” She probed and cleaned the knife wound in his left thigh. “This injury is infected and not closing as it should. In addition to antibiotics, you will need special dressing changes for about a week.”

Alarmed at hearing this, Kuryakin said, “But you’re the nurse, not the doctor. You don’t know.”

“Oh yes I do,” she countered calmly. “I was a MASH nurse during the Korean Conflict, just out of training, and I’ve been U.N.C.L.E.-Cairo’s head nurse since I resigned my commission in 1955. I know wounds, and I know you U.N.C.L.E. enforcement agents. It will probably be at least a week before you can go back on full duty. That’s that.”

Kuryakin knew by her calm confident demeanor that she could not be swayed, and that if there were to be any swaying to be done, it would be her convincing the doctor of the agent’s need for a week of convalescence. He resigned himself to that fact and began watching her expert hands clean his wound. “You’re American, aren’t you?” She nodded. “Then why are you in Cairo?”

She smiled, glad that this striking man actually started to show some personal interest in her. Through the grapevine, she had heard of U.N.C.L.E.’s number two enforcement agent’s aloofness. Maybe the grapevine was wrong. “Well, I took a vacation here while I was still in the Army, and fell in love with the entire country. U.N.C.L.E. recruited me because of my experience in trauma nursing and ability to learn new languages, and I said yes, as long as it could be in Egypt. Ah, finished, I think. How does it look now?”

The agent studied the wound. When he had come into U.N.C.L.E.-Cairo’s infirmary, the wound smelled horribly and drained green pus and hurt considerably. After the nurse’s flushing it with a saline and antibiotic solution and pulling out dead tissue and even trimming some tissue, the injury looked minor, though it still hurt. “Much better, thank you.” He looked up at her. “I’m glad I insisted that we come here for treatment after that Arabian Affair.”

She smiled shyly, blushed, and turned her face away so he could not see her reaction. She hurried to cover the wound with antibiotic ointment and sterile bandages, because she feared she would lose her professional composure.

Illya continued to watch her intently. She seemed quite intelligent and caring, and being attractive was a bonus. “I am sorry, but I don’t even know your name.”

“Oh, I am sorry, I should have introduced myself. I am Elizabeth Meadows, but my friends call me Liz.” She avoided eye contact and put her full concentration on completing the dressing.

“Well, Nurse Meadows, perhaps soon I may call you Liz. Would you be able to join me for dinner tonight?”

“That is very sweet, Mr. Kuryakin, but I don’t go out with my patients, and you are confined to the infirmary tonight.” She tried very hard to sound professional and decided she would have to rethink her policy on not dating patients.

The Russian agent ran his fingers through his blond hair, bleached even lighter by the Arabian sun. “Well, it seems to me that if you shared dinner with me tonight, you would not be breaking any rules because we would not be going out.”

Nurse Meadows smiled broadly, showing even, white teeth. “Since you put it _that_ way…”

#######

Meanwhile, Napoleon Solo, the chief enforcement agent, or Section 2, Number 1, for the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, began scouting for feminine companionship himself. Because he didn’t spend much time in this part of the world, the CEA didn’t really know anyone to call on short notice to ask for a date. It was fortunate he enjoyed the hunt. And his first try would be that black-haired, light-brown-skinned, shapely woman who admitted the two agents earlier through the emergency entrance.

He found her at the emergency entrance, scanning the monitors and doing some sort of paper work that required little concentration. Her beauty and poise were breathtaking. Her ability to handle herself in an emergency was obviously superior, or she wouldn’t be seated at that desk. She was someone to be reckoned with, and Solo felt up to that task tonight.

“Ah, excuse me, Miss…” Solo said, allowing his voice to rise slightly at the end of the sentence.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Solo,” she said in a soft, silky voice and without relinquishing her attention to the monitors. Solo was having trouble placing the accent, but it was hypnotizing. “It’s Miss Smythe.” _So that’s it_ , he thought, _she’s part English and part Egyptian_.

“Well, Miss Smythe, since introductions have been made, perhaps you will accompany me this beautiful evening to one of Cairo’s best eating establishments.”

She looked up at him at last. Her eyes were black, liquid, and smiling. “And afterwards?”

“I’m sure we could come up with something that was mutually agreeable, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps,” she said coyly. She paused before saying more, just to tease this man who was notorious within U.N.C.L.E. for his skirt-chasing and unparalleled charm. “My shift ends at 7. I will meet you here at 8.” She could feel her heart thumping and she hoped Solo could not hear it.

“Excellent, Miss Smythe. Oh, do you have a first name?”

“Yes, but ‘Miss Smythe’ will do for now, Mr. Solo.”

Napoleon Solo knew this was going to be an interesting evening -- the hunt was just beginning. He grinned broadly at her, gently tapped the desk twice, and turned away. He had to get cleaned up. And he had some shopping to do; his borrowed tuxedo had definitely seen better days. As he walked away, he was tempted to glance back to see if she was watching him. _I bet she is_ , he thought confidently as he strode jauntily toward the lavatories. He was right.

#####

The next morning, Napoleon Solo woke to find himself in unfamiliar surroundings. Though this happens frequently for many agents of U.N.C.L.E., they learn to re-orient themselves quickly and prepare for action, if necessary. Solo was no exception, and within two seconds, knew where he was and why he was there. Where was a visiting agent’s room in U.N.C.L.E.-Cairo headquarters; why was because Miss Smythe -- Salome -- lived with two roommates, and because his partner was laid up in the infirmary with an infected leg wound. He shaved and showered at a leisurely pace, replaying last night’s encounter with the enchanting Salome Smythe slowly in his head. He would have to try to get back to Cairo more often.

Finally, he donned the light blue linen suit he had purchased yesterday. He picked up a bundle wrapped in brown paper and string, stuck it under his arm, and strolled, whistling, toward the infirmary. Although he was looking forward to seeing his partner this morning, Solo hoped he had calmed down some.

Solo knocked on the door to Illya Kuryakin’s room in the infirmary and went directly in, without waiting for a response. “Good morning, _tovarisch_ , how’s the leg coming along?”

The Russian U.N.C.L.E. agent was awake, propped up in bed, left leg elevated, reading some sort of scientific journal as best he could without his glasses. Though he appeared rested, a pallorous tone was still detectable under his recently tanned face. He frowned at Napoleon and said, “Don’t you ever wait to be asked in?”

Napoleon dropped the bundle on the bed and replied, “Now, what could I possibly be interrupting in a hospital room? And where do you get these things?” he asked, motioning to the journal.

Kuryakin used one of his secret smiles. “You never know, Napoleon. And usually I am able to borrow a journal or two from my scientific or technical colleagues at any U.N.C.L.E. branch. What’s this?” he queried, pointing at the package.

Solo perked up at seeing Illya’s smile. They had been partners too long not to be able to read each other loud and clear without words. “What do you mean, Illya? You’re hurt. You’re in the hospital, for Pete’s sake! Was it that nurse…?”

“Napoleon, you know it is pointless to ask me. And who is this Pete? No one will tell me who he is and why his sake matters.”

“Illya, don’t be evasive! Anyway, you should know by now that this ‘Pete’s sake’ is just an expression. Quit holding out on me. I’ll tell you about my wonderful evening.”

Before Illya could respond, both his and Napoleon’s communicators sounded. Both men were surprised and concerned; it was quite costly to set up a three-way communication, so this must be something very important. As Napoleon took the cap off his and extended its antenna, he said, “Illya, you better come clean.”

“Uh, Mr. Solo, what are you implying about my state of personal hygiene?” Alexander Waverly’s voice carried just a hint of challenge.

U.N.C.L.E.’s number one enforcement agent cringed when he realized his superior must have caught the last few words he had intended for Kuryakin. “Oh, no, Mr. Waverly, sir, I was speaking to Mr. Kuryakin. It appears that spending time in the desert has made him less concerned about _his_ personal hygiene.” Solo grinned smugly at the man in bed. Illya shot him a look that said, “I’ll get you back!”

Alexander Waverly didn’t believe Solo for a moment, but, being all business, didn’t call him on it. “Regardless of one’s state of cleanliness, Mr. Solo, you two gentlemen have work to do. Since I heard a communicator beeping for a few moments, I will assume you and Mr. Kuryakin are together.”

Kuryakin had found and activated his communicator and now spoke into it. “Yes, sir. We are in my room in the Cairo headquarters infirmary.”

“Very good, Mr. Kuryakin. I have spoken with your physician and am given to understand that you are doing well enough to travel.”

“Yes, sir.” Solo and Kuryakin looked at each other, wondering what was so important as to override doctor’s _and_ nurse’s orders. Kuryakin shrugged and said, “What sort of ‘travel’ do you have in mind, sir?”

The elderly man in New York City paused momentarily. He really despised using injured agents in an assignment, but this one called for the pairing of his top two men, with their own particular talents, to be successful. And the success of this mission was imperative. “Mr. Kuryakin, Operation Guiding Star is ready to proceed to the next step earlier than anticipated. We are in need of the code key, which as you know was assigned to the research and development team in Venice.” There was no need for them to know why the project was being pushed ahead of schedule. A Section 3 agent had just accidentally discovered the current location of THRUSH Central and that a move to a new location was highly likely to occur in the very near future. Tracking THRUSH Central would be a great _coup_ for U.N.C.L.E.. Losing THRUSH Central in the process of moving would be greatly reduced using Guiding Star.

Napoleon Solo, eyebrows knitted over his dark, intelligent eyes, interrupted: “What, sir, if I may ask, is ‘Operation Guiding Star’?”

“Forgive me, Mr. Solo, for keeping you in the dark about this, and for instructing Mr. Kuryakin not to speak with you about it. You had no need to know until now. Operation Guiding Star involves the use of satellites to help U.N.C.L.E. locate agents and to guide them to a particular destination as required with the use of small transceivers. Sort of like a tracking device that works both ways but with a much greater range, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Kuryakin?”

“Yes, sir. I couldn’t have put it better myself.” Solo raised his eyebrows and stared at his partner in amazement. Not only had Illya kept a secret from Solo -- his own partner and friend and fellow field agent - he had actually worked on it in some capacity. Illya smiled guiltily at Napoleon.

“The computer program required to operate the, ummm, project was written in part by Mr. er Kuryakin, who suggested that there should be some sort of protection of the system in case it falls into the wrong hands. That’s where the code key comes in. Your assignment, gentlemen, is to pick up the code key and deliver it intact to me. Without delay, of course.” Waverly’s cultured British accent and matter-of-fact tone always seemed to indicate his confidence in his agents.

“Any indications from Section 3 if our friendly neighborhood ‘thrushes’ know anything about this project?”

“Nothing directly, uh, Mr. Solo. But one must assume they know something is afoot and will stop at nothing to get anything or anyone who might have knowledge about an operation.” Waverly cleared his throat, because he wanted to be sure that what he said next would not be misunderstood or garbled. “As both of you gentlemen know, every agent is considered expendable. However, for this assignment, Mr. Kuryakin is **not** expendable, but you, Mr. Solo, are. Expendable, that is. It is of the utmost importance that Mr. Kuryakin get to New York and that not one piece of real information concerning this project fall into the wrong hands. Mr. Solo, you are to die trying to get him here, if necessary.” He paused again. “Of course, it goes without saying that one hopes such an occurrence is not necessary.”

The two men in the infirmary room stared at each other. Both were stunned at Waverly’s declaration. Neither could speak for a moment, needing time to digest the high priority of this new mission.

Solo recovered first. “Yes, sir, message understood,” he said soberly.

“Then I expect you to leave Cairo on the next commercial flight to Venice. Using an U.N.C.L.E. jet is out of the question; it would raise too many suspicions. I will leave it up to you to make your travel arrangements from Venice to New York. Mr. Kuryakin, you know what to do once you get to Venice.”

The Russian agent, knowing this assignment would come one day, replied simply, “Yes, sir.” Solo wondered if Waverly noticed how Illya’s voice croaked ever so slightly.

“Excellent. Mr., er, Kuryakin, I expect to see you in, oh, twenty-four hours.” The partners noticed that Waverly left out Solo’s name. “Good luck, gentlemen.” Waverly cut the connection before he could hear their “Thank you, sir”s. Back in his office in U.N.C.L.E.-New York, Alexander Waverly continued to clutch the large microphone in his right hand while he stroked his bushy eyebrows with his left, ignoring the incoming calls until Lisa Rogers, his assistant-in-training, brought him back from his thoughts.

#####

It was almost 30 minutes before the Canadian-American agent could speak further with his partner. Within a few seconds of Waverly’s termination of their conversation, Nurse Meadows entered the room with a box filled with medical supplies. She had explained that the doctor was releasing Illya earlier than expected but against his medical judgment. She had then proceeded to give Illya another injection of an antibiotic in his rump (they both hoped Napoleon wouldn’t notice his lack of modesty and her non-professional familiarity with that part of his anatomy, and more) and pulled out his intravenous line. Next, she had changed his dressing, instructing both of them how best to pack and dress the wound. She gave Illya the box of supplies, which included some mild narcotic pain relievers. Finally, she had completed her work. She shook hands first with Solo, then with Kuryakin. Solo did notice that her hand lingered in his friend’s a touch longer than necessary, and that Illya’s hand squeezed hers in a rather affectionate manner.

But now she was gone, and Illya was dressing in the fresh underwear and safari clothes that had been in the package Napoleon had brought him. Napoleon watched, assessing just how well Illya could move and how much he favored his injured leg. He was concerned about still being able to make out the presence of a dressing under the loose-fitting pants. Any experienced eye would immediately spot this vulnerability in the Russian agent. Solo almost groaned out loud when he saw Illya limp noticeably to the cubby where his boots were. _This is not good_ , he thought, _but this Guiding Star thing and the code key must be extraordinarily important for Waverly to send Illya out like this._

Napoleon watched his friend and partner return to the bed. Illya was even more pale than usual and sweating, despite the air-conditioning. His features were drawn and his lips were set tight. Napoleon knew he was hurting and fatigued, and that he would never admit it, even to Solo.

Kuryakin sat on the side of the hospital bed and closed his eyes while an attack of dizziness and nausea passed. He finally realized his best friend and partner, who had just been told to die for him if necessary, was watching his every move. He sighed inwardly, well aware that Solo knew of his limitations and with them, the increasing likelihood that he would die before this affair was over. As he struggled to put on his boots, Kuryakin vowed not to be a liability. He would not be responsible for getting his friend killed.

Illya fought back a second wave of dizziness, then instructed his mind to control the pain. He took a few deep breaths before standing. He slipped his watch onto his left wrist and pocketed the communicator pen and wallet. He put on his most non-expressive face before looking at his partner. “I want to stop by the armory to pick up a few things before we leave, Napoleon. And I do appreciate the clothes, but couldn’t you have gotten me a suit? This is not exactly what people are wearing in Italy.”

Solo, who had countered Illya’s lack of expression with his own, couldn’t suppress a grin. _Maybe I’m wrong, and he’s doing better than I thought_. “Since when did you ever care about fashion, my friend? Anyway, I know a good tailor in Venice who’ll fix us both up, _pronto_.” Napoleon always loved going to Italy, and always enjoyed lording his superior command of Italian over Illya. “I’ll go with you; I could use a resupply myself. THRUSH tuxedos don’t seem to carry many U.N.C.L.E. toys in them. After you, _tovarisch_.”

Illya bowed slightly and said, “Of course, beauty before age.” He exited the room, limping badly despite his attempt at bracing his covered wound with his left hand. Napoleon began to correct him before realizing Illya had said exactly what he meant. In two strides, he caught up with the smaller man and then quickly passed him. Illya took the challenge and the race was on to the armory.

#####

Since leaving U.N.C.L.E.-Cairo to go to the airport, both agents scanned their surroundings for anything or anyone suspicious. They were once again armed with U.N.C.L.E. Specials and other odds and ends that might prove useful. Napoleon Solo had already secreted away on his person the various devices he had chosen from the armory. Illya Kuryakin carried his booty in a small knapsack, along with the materials for a few dressing changes. He was also equipped with a standard U.N.C.L.E. defense cane, since Napoleon had insisted he use one since he would move faster with it and he would likely have less pain. Begrudgingly, Illya had consented to its use, knowing Napoleon was right and it was obvious to everyone that even without the cane that he was physically compromised. Illya had spent some time making a few alterations to it while his tall, dark, and insatiable partner flirted with the young, nubile, Egyptian woman in charge of weapons inventory.

Both agents were relieved to finally get out of the taxi and enter the airport. Napoleon spotted the correct ticket counter first, got Illya’s attention, and motioned for him to follow. They continued to scan, but noticed nothing unusual. The uniformed woman behind the counter, to Napoleon’s surprise and delight, was Oriental, not Egyptian. She was quite attractive, so he decided to handle the transaction and let Illya stand watch.

“Good day,” the CEA began, “I believe you are holding two tickets on the next flight to Venice, Italy, for me and my companion.”

“Names, please?” She spoke English with a British accent. And her dark eyes surveyed the man in front of her counter closely.

“Uh, Solo and Kuryakin, Miss…” he glanced at her name badge, “…Tanaka.” He smiled directly into her eyes.

She looked away from him while she leafed through a small stack of papers. Presently, she pulled out a sheaf of papers. “Here we are. Two tickets, coach, to Venice with a brief _lay-over_ in Rome.” With the pretty ticket agent’s emphasis on “lay-over,” Napoleon began to regret he could carry this flirtation just so far. “Do you have any luggage to check?”

“Not this time, Miss Tanaka. Perhaps next time in your wonderful city, I will plan for a longer stay.” Without warning, Solo felt a sharp nudge in his ribs. Instantly, his right hand slid under the left side of his jacket and pulled his gun halfway out while he turned to identify the threat.

The threat was Illya and his cane. “Get on with it. We’ll miss our aeroplane.”

The ticket agent smiled sweetly. “He’s right, you know, Mr. Solo. Your airplane is boarding now.”

Solo slid the gun firmly back into its holster and tugged his suit jacket into place. He glared at Illya, but was smiling seductively by the time his gaze fell upon Miss Tanaka once more. “It has been a pleasure doing business with, my dear. I hope to see you again soon.”

“I’m sure you will, Mr. Solo,” she almost purred as she raised an eyebrow and tilted her head. She held out the tickets, which he took, making sure to let his fingers brush against hers.

Kuryakin prodded his partner with the cane again. “Will you come on! We’ll have to run for it as it is.”

As Solo sprinted for the gate with Illya limping madly behind him by a few paces, Miss Tanaka watched. Once they were out of sight, she gave the woman’s body that had been crammed underneath the counter one more kick with her pointy-toed shoe, more out of sheer meanness than reassurance that she -- the real ticket agent -- was still dead. Miss Tanaka made her way to a telephone booth, dialed a long series of numbers, and said to the voice that only answered with a “Yes?”, “This is Agent 43. The men from U.N.C.L.E. are on their way to Rome. The skinny one has an injured leg.” She hung up without waiting for a reply. She then removed the uniform jacket, turned it inside out, put it back on, and finally sauntered out of the Cairo airport. She laughed when she saw the growing line at the ticket counter.

#####

The short flight to Rome was uneventful. There was not enough time in the air for Kuryakin to really rest, but that was impossible as Napoleon Solo pumped him for information about Operation Guiding Star. The airplane was far from full, and they were able to secure seats far enough away from everyone to avoid any intentional or unintentional eavesdropping. But they remained suspicious and on high alert, especially at Kuryakin’s insistence, so they checked carefully for “bugs” and found none.

When Kuryakin finished telling his partner of the basics of the project, Solo nodded and whistled quietly through his teeth. “I’m beginning to see how fantastic this technology is, and why Waverly would not want THRUSH or anyone else to know a damn bit about it. Just imagine what could be done with it! With enough work, it might be possible to target a specific building and blow it up from space."

Soberly, Kuryakin responded, “Or an individual. Haven’t you wondered why my programming before certain missions has taken longer than yours lately?”

“I just thought you were giving them a hard time on general principles. I know you don’t particularly care to have anyone, even U.N.C.L.E., playing around in that enormous brain of yours.

“I suppose you will have to undergo this supplementary programming now. It will be have to be done in Venice. We won’t have enough time in Rome. I don’t think the Rome office has the equipment to do this, anyway.” Illya ran his hands through his blond hair, then rubbed his eyes. “I suppose I should go through more programming myself.” He rested his head on the back of the seat and closed his eyes. In moments, he was asleep.

Solo studied his partner. Though it was subtle, he had noticed that Illya’s accent had thickened as they talked and that he was working hard to speak correct English. It was only something that someone who knew him well would probably notice. His fatigue was understandable. Illya Kuryakin was really a cold-weather person, and had had to spend several days in the Arabian desert. He was stabbed, had to fight for his life twice -- one of those times facing a larger, uninjured man who knew how to wield a hot poker -- lead a charge on a THRUSH installation that housed a very effective vaporizer, and deal with Sophie. Now he had an infected wound and a mandate from Waverly to be in New York in 24 hours with a code key for a very secret project. Going into this business, they both knew there would be times like this. Solo admired his partner’s dedication, and he knew his partner admired his.

Solo glanced at his watch. They would be landing in Rome in about 10 minutes. He decided he better get some rest, too, even though it was such a short time. _I better grab a few winks while I can_ , the dark-haired agent thought.

Napoleon Solo thought he was in heaven when he saw the tall, svelte, red-haired woman shaking his shoulder to rouse him from his short nap. But the sound of the engines reminded him he was not in heaven, and that the woman was a stewardess, not an angel.

“Please, sir, put on your lap belt. We are landing soon.” Her French-accented English was almost musical.

“Of course, stewardess. No, don’t bother,” Solo said as she reached for the still sleeping Kuryakin, “I’ll wake him.”

She smiled her thanks, and returned to the front of the airplane, with Napoleon’s eyes following her appreciatively all the way. Then he jabbed his traveling partner in the ribs. “Wake up, little buttercup,” he teased.

Kuryakin was instantly awake and went for his gun. He quickly realized it was Napoleon. With a menacing look on his face, Illya muttered, “Perhaps I should draw and use it, anyway. Put you out of my misery, as it were.”

“Now, now, sleeping beauty. We are about to land. Buckle up.” Shortly, they were both strapped in.

As they bounced along the runway, Illya said, “Something is barking at the back of my brain. I can’t quite reach it.”

“You mean _nagging_ , and I think you are being a might too paranoid, my Russian friend. Neither one of us saw anything amiss in Cairo, and this plane ride has been pretty uneventful. We’re almost at the gate. I’ll contact both Rome and Cairo to report in and catch up on any intelligence while you change that dressing.”

Reluctantly, Illya agreed. The airplane stopped near the terminal. Only a few passengers rose to leave. Over the intercom, Solo heard the familiar French accent speak in Italian: “Welcome to Rome, ladies and gentlemen. We hope you have enjoyed your flight. We regret to inform our passengers who are scheduled to travel on to Venice and Paris that you must disembark and board another aeroplane for the rest of your journey, due to some minor technical difficulties with this aircraft. Please forgive this inconvenience. We will attempt to make the rest of your flight with us as pleasurable as possible. Thank you.” As she began to repeat the message in English, the two partners looked at each other in alarm. Both knew this turn of events was not likely to be coincidence. To think otherwise would not have made them U.N.C.L.E.’s top enforcement agents.

“Who’s feeling paranoid now, Napoleon?” Illya said flatly. He immediately began scanning the world outside the aircraft. He did not move from his seat.

Solo signaled the stewardess to come to him. She arrived swiftly, and said, “ _Monsieur_ , is there a problem?”

“Uh, yes, there is, as a matter of fact. You see, my friend here is having some difficulty getting around, and we booked this flight because it didn’t involve a change in airplanes. When did these technical problems come up, and what are they?”

“I am very sorry, _monsieur_ , but I do not know the answers to your questions. I was informed myself only after we touched down. I am sure it is nothing serious, but we are very cautious and do not want to risk harm to anyone.” She was very calm and reassuring, and Solo suspected she didn’t know anymore than what she had already announced.

“Very well, we appreciate the caution and concern of this airline. My friend and I will be off the plane shortly.”

Again, she smiled her thanks. This time, Solo did not watch her leave. “See anything, Illya?”

“Nothing that is obvious or out of the ordinary. But I haven’t really looked out the other side.”

Solo did that himself. Again, nothing obvious or unexpected. But the hairs on the back of his neck were almost dancing.

Illya’s hairs, on the other hand, were leaping. He could feel the adrenaline pump through his veins and arteries and along with it, his senses sharpened. He struggled out of the seat. Once in the aisle, he pulled a few items out of his knapsack and made a minor adjustment on his cane. He watched Napoleon withdraw his pistol, flick off the safety, change to sleep-inducing darts, and finally slide the weapon into the right pocket of his suit jacket.

“We won’t get to Venice standing here.” Napoleon started up the aisle ahead of Illya.

They arrived in the terminal without incident. They were greeted by a dark, hairy man wearing the airline’s uniform, who apologized profusely and instructed them how to get to the necessary gate. They began following his directions.

“I think he’s legit, Illya. I see a couple of our fellow passengers up ahead moving in the same direction.”

“Yes, I spotted them as well. What do you mean, ‘legit’?” Abruptly, Kuryakin stopped walking and grasped Napoleon’s arm to stop him. “The ticket girl in Cairo called you ‘Mr. Solo’.”

“Yeah. So what?”

“You never introduced yourself. How did she know _you_ were Solo?”

The instant awareness that they were most likely no longer secretly on a mission showed in the looks they exchanged. A heartbeat later, Solo spied a rather large, swarthy man following their movements with his dull, dark eyes. Solo cleared this throat in such a way that Kuryakin, who had just noticed a chunky woman who seemed to be paying them an inordinate amount of attention, knew his partner had identified a probable threat. Using his peripheral vision, Illya spotted the man as well. When Solo turned his head to make eye contact, Kuryakin moved his head imperceptibly to everyone but his long-time partner toward the woman.

“I suggest we choose an alternate mode of transportation to Venice. I doubt these THRUSH people will make a move on us here. They must know we’re bound for Venice and wouldn’t want to capture or kill us prematurely.”

Kuryakin adopted Napoleon’s nonchalant manner. “I agree. It is a nice touch, don’t you think, in getting the airline to switch aeroplanes?” They continued to stroll toward the new gate.

“I guess you don’t exactly feel like jumping out of the baggage department of a plane rolling for take-off, hmmm?” Illya snorted and shook his head. “Thought not. Follow my lead. But first, we need something to hide that yellow hair of yours.”

“Will this do?” Illya had seen an apparently abandoned navy blue baseball cap on a bench facing the corridor. Without breaking his hobbling gait and stooping just enough, he had picked it up.

Solo hadn’t noticed. “Sneaky Russian,” he murmured, patting himself down as if checking for his wallet. “I should start calling you ‘Fagan’. Wait to put that thing on.”

Their tails were staying roughly ten yards back. This didn’t give the U.N.C.L.E. agents much opportunity for ducking out of sight. Napoleon concentrated on identifying any opportunity, while Illya kept tabs on the two THRUSHes and looked for other enemies.

As they neared the gate, Solo found the opportunity. The walkway took a corner that put them out of sight for a few moments. It was just enough time for the two to slip into a service door that opened into a large stock room filled with boxes containing items for passenger comfort and safety. Illya pulled on the cap, and followed Solo to the left where they hid behind a deep stack of boxes labeled “Pillow Cases.” They crouched and waited.

They didn’t have to wait long. “They must be in here,” a panicky masculine voice said.

“We were warned about these two,” countered a feminine voice, “and we still lost them. Headquarters will not be pleased.”

“We find them, make sure they’re on the plane, and Headquarters doesn’t have to know anything else.” The man tried to sound confident.

“I think we have failed, Antonio. We failed when they disappeared. They must have spotted you, you oaf. You were too obvious in watching them!”

“ _I_ was too obvious? I will not take the blame for your incompetence. It was you they saw, my dear Elena.”

The U.N.C.L.E. agents heard Elena harrumph. Next they heard her high heels strike the floor as she got closer to their hiding place. Napoleon signaled to Illya to go around the other side of their pile of boxes. He silently limped away, cane in one hand and something else in the other.

Elena got closer to Napoleon’s position. He decided to shoot her with a sleep dart, since they needed to buy more time than a karate chop could guarantee. She rounded the corner and gasped when she saw Solo pointing the pistol at her chest. Before she could call out, Solo pulled the trigger. He caught her as she fell. He cursed under his breath as he struggled with her weight to gently ease her to the floor. She was almost down when he heard a crash from where Kuryakin had gone. Alarmed, he summarily dropped his heavy load and dashed toward the sound.

Solo arrived to find Illya tangled in a heap of oxygen masks. Arriving at the scene simultaneously was Antonio. The THRUSHman seemed surprised to see the U.N.C.L.E. agents and was drawing his gun when there was a soft _poof!_ followed by a cloud of smoke that enveloped him. Illya’s toss of the sleep gas pellet had been perfect, but he didn’t look pleased.

“Napoleon, I could use your help.” Illya had already started digging himself out of the mess.

Solo checked on the large man. “He’s out for the count. How long?” He began to help Illya.

“Two hours. But we could use more time. I have a couple of six-hour hand darts we should use.” They magically appeared in Illya’s hand. Solo took them and used them on Elena and Antonio. By the time he returned to Illya, the Russian was examining the canvas webbing that had held the masks. “Looks like the friendly neighborhood rats were hungry. Help me up.”

After dealing with the heavy Elena, Illya seemed as light as air to the American agent. “How’s the leg?”

“That’s fine. It is my pride that is hurt. To be tripped up by oxygen masks!” Illya complained.

“That was a fluke. But THRUSH on our heels isn’t. Let’s get out of here and head for some place quiet and secluded to plan our next move. There’s the door that leads to the tarmac. When these ‘birdies’ don’t report in soon, this place, and probably the rest of Rome, will be swarming with lots of THRUSHes.”

“After you, my dear Alphonse.” Napoleon started for the door, with Illya right behind him. Solo was aware that Illya’s limp was worse and that he leaned heavily on the cane. He knew Illya would not complain, would do his best to function at his best. Solo knew, because he was the same way.

As Solo visually searched the area outside the door, Illya leaned against the wall. He was breathing rapidly, and sweat beaded up on his pale face. He tried to fight the pain down, but was only partially successful. He closed his eyes and swore that he would not compromise this assignment or his partner. He felt a tap on his shoulder and opened his blue, bloodshot eyes to see Napoleon gesturing him on. They went through the door into the bright Roman sunshine.

#####

After changing taxis numerous times, and even hitchhiking with a group of high school girls in a convertible, the U.N.C.L.E. agents found themselves in an out-of-the-way _trattoria_ that smelled of garlic and ripe tomatoes and fresh bread and, fortunately, was empty of other customers. “Just like home,” Solo said quietly. “My _nonna_ could really cook.” Because of the war, Illya’s memories of his family almost ended with the war itself. Illya envied very little, but he did envy Solo his family. He became more distant than usual and could feel the start of a brood.

Solo caught the subtle change in his partner’s mood. “Uh, why don’t I order for us?” Illya nodded his assent.

“I’ll have the veal piccata with spaghetti and my friend here will have the grilled beefsteak and ziti. And a bottle of the house wine, too, please,” he said in perfect Italian to the voluptuous waitress standing so close that her hip touched his arm. “Is there some place where my friend and I can get washed up?”

Her full lips curled up slowly and she said, “Follow me.”

Napoleon rose and went to help Illya. He brushed Solo’s hand away and glared at him angrily. Solo shrugged and followed the shapely woman to the back of the establishment. Illya required a few moments to steady himself and overcome the nausea and dizziness that struck him.

She showed them to a small room equipped with a sink, toilet, and a single bed. Napoleon thanked her. Illya immediately plopped down on the side of the bed and sighed. The bed and sleep beckoned him. But Solo would not let that happen. He washed his hands and made Illya drop his pants. The bandage on Illya’s left leg showed signs of bloody and purulent drainage. Solo fished scissors and fresh dressings out of the knapsack and began to work on Illya’s wound. Illya slumped against the wall and without protest let Napoleon work.

Though the wound had split open more, there seemed to be less green drainage than before and the surrounding tissue didn’t look quite so angry and inflamed. But it was apparent that it was still quite tender as Solo put on the clean dressings. Neither spoke during the process until Solo said, “Pull your pants back up before people start talking about us.”

Illya ignored Solo’s attempt at levity. He was too tired and hungry. Again declining Napoleon’s offer of a helping hand, Illya stood and reached for his pants. Napoleon caught him before he took a header. “You’re not refusing my help now.” Illya let him pull his pants up and fasten them, and he leaned heavily on his partner as they returned to the table. The waitress was just putting the plates filled with heaping, steaming food on the table. An old man was behind her, carrying the wine and a basket of crusty bread. They came running to the agents’ aid when they saw Solo almost carrying Illya.

“Oh, please, let us help you! You are sick, no?” said the man excitedly. The young waitress simply clucked like a mother hen.

“No, thank you, I am fine,” Illya said in Russian. The two Italians stopped when they heard the strange language. They looked at the other man who spoke their language like a native for an explanation.

“My Russian friend here is stubborn and does not wish to impose on your hospitality. He will be fine when he has some of your delicious food to eat.” _And wine, too, whether you like it or not_ , Solo said to himself.

The first bite of the beef seemed to revive Kuryakin. He ate vigorously and with relish. Color started to appear in his face again. He even drank a glass of wine without Solo forcing it on him. The waitress, who could put Sophia Loren to shame, hovered very close to Illya. Solo found himself feeling a pang of jealousy. After all, he was the one with Italian ancestry.

The old man seemed delighted that Illya was feeling much better because of his food. Illya, mouth too stuffed to say anything, nodded his approval to the old man. He scurried off. Shortly he was back with another bottle of wine and more bread. The two U.N.C.L.E. agents continued to eat and drink until they were almost bursting, in part because the food was perfection and in part because they did not know when they would eat again.

#####

Finally, after assuring their host and hostess that they could eat and drink no more, they were left alone. Still no one else had entered the small establishment, so they decided to make plans as they sipped the last of the red wine.

“Illya, do you remember the gypsies that corralled us here when Clara needed my help?”

“Of course. They were not of my tribe, but that matters little to a gypsy.”

“But I thought you weren’t a gypsy.”

“Technically, I’m not. But I lived with a tribe for a while, when it was necessary for me to be lost. The Romani taught me many things, and…protected me. To them, I am family.”

“Well, I say, let’s take advantage of this ‘relationship’ and enlist their help in getting to Venice. It’s my educated guess that THRUSH is covering virtually all routes and modes of travel out of town.”

Illya thought for a moment before speaking. “Since it appears that THRUSH is just monitoring us, I don’t think I would be putting my friends in harm’s path. I will ask them, but first we must find them, Napoleon. I don’t know where to look for them in Rome.”

“Perhaps the chef or the waitress knows where the local gypsy enclave is. And it might be a good idea to disguise ourselves a bit. Especially you. You really do stand out in this country.” Napoleon looked directly at Illya’s shaggy blond hair. “That baseball cap just won’t cut it.”

“I suppose I do stand out here,” Kuryakin agreed. He rummaged through his knapsack and quickly pulled out a pencil and a small pad of paper. “Here,” he said as he handed both items to Napoleon, “write this down in _legible_ Italian. I am sure you can convince our beautiful waitress to do a bit of shopping for us.” Solo wrote quickly as Illya dictated the list of items needed for their disguises. When he was done, he gestured for them to return to the table. Illya watched and listened in awe as Solo wove an outlandish and totally untrue tale of intrigue to explain their situation and drew the listeners in completely. By the time he was done, both the old man and the young woman appeared eager to take a bullet for the agents. Solo gave the girl a handful of lira along with the list. She scurried out of the _trattoria_ , clearly suspicious of everything and everyone.

“Napoleon, ask him about the gypsies.”

Solo and the old man spoke briefly in rapid-fire Italian. Illya caught the drift of the conversation, and had a good idea where the gypsies lived. Both agents thanked the man who waved it off. He bowed and left them alone at the table. Minutes later, he was back with a pot of strong black coffee, two mugs, and a heaping plate of biscotti. “I will make you food to take with you to sustain you in your journey of danger,” he said conspiratorially. He hurried back to the kitchen.

Illya put his legs up on the chair next to him. “I can’t believe you came up with such a ridiculous story and that they fell for it.”

“It’s not any more far-fetched than you passing yourself off as T. E. Lawrence’s son.”

That ploy, though inspired, would probably be a source of material for teasing him for years to come -- especially if he continued to tease Solo now, so Illya thought it best to drop the subject. “Napoleon, if you would be so kind as to pour the coffee,” he said as he once again reached into the knapsack. This time he withdrew a small flask. “The Cairo office didn’t have vodka, so I took the bourbon.” He poured a scant amount into each mug.

Napoleon pulled the knapsack over and peered in. Looking back at his partner, he allowed his own amazement to show. “Forget ‘Fagin.’ I think I’m going to start calling you Harpo.”

“What does my playing the harp have to do with…”

“Never mind,” Solo interrupted. He made a mental note to take his culturally deprived friend to see a few Marx Brothers movies when -- or if -- they got back to New York.

#####

Illya Kuryakin quickly rigged up some passable disguises. Napoleon now sported a big gut, gray-streaked hair, and a bushy gray mustache. He gave up his linen suit for some well-worn mechanic’s jumpsuit previously owned by the old man’s son. Illya wore a wig of curly white hair and his face had suddenly become deeply tanned and wrinkled. His extra poundage landed on his upper back. Sunglasses of the type worn by blind men covered Illya’s distinctive blue eyes. Between the glasses and the cane and his shuffling gait, he would on first glance be mistaken for a blind man. He traded his safari clothes for a pair of the old man’s trousers, a gauze shirt, a long jacket, and a pair of gloves.

The old man and his daughter, the waitress, watched intently as the transformations occurred. When Solo asked for their opinion, they both clapped their hands gleefully and shouted, “ _Bravo_! _Bravo_!” Solo thanked them for all they had done and started on the long good-byes Italians were noted for.

Meanwhile, Kuryakin had eased himself away from his three companions. Their superior needed to be informed of this change in plans. “Open Channel D, please, priority scramble for Mr. Waverly,” he said softly into his pen communicator.

“Mr. Kuryakin, I wondered what was keeping you. I understand you’ve run into a spot of trouble,” Waverly said without apparent concern or worry.

“Yes, sir. I take it you know that we were identified at the Cairo airport and…”

“Yes, of course, um, Mr. Kuryakin. When you and Mr., er, Solo didn’t arrive in Venice as scheduled, we were able to put most of the puzzle together. I trust you are unharmed?”

“No new injuries, sir. But we will be getting to Venice by an alternate mode of transportation. This does mean, however, that we are unlikely to make it back to New York headquarters by tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, I suppose that will have to be the case. But I do expect you to be here as quickly as possible. The longer we take to launch the next phase…”

“Excuse me, sir,” Illya interrupted as he saw Napoleon frantically gesturing for him to return to the fold, “but Mr. Solo is requesting my presence with the people who have been helping us. I’ll report in when we get to Venice.”

“Very good, Mr., um, Kuryakin.” Waverly cut the connection and went on to a call coming in from Cutter at the Survival School.

“Illya and I really must be going. We’d like to get to the gypsy camp before nightfall.” Napoleon grabbed Illya by the arm of his jacket and pulled him toward the door. Illya barely had the chance to grab the knapsack now stuffed with bread, cheese, and proscuitto in addition to its original supplies. Solo continued to wave at the man and girl until he reached the door. “Okay, Illya, even though it’s a little late for Halloween, you’re now my blind and mute father. Grab my elbow.”

Illya shrugged into the knapsack and made the necessary adjustments to his temporarily stooped shoulders. He took the left elbow Napoleon offered him, and they left their wonderful little refuge. Illya was not looking forward to the trip to the gypsy camp. It was always hard to play mute or blind in a potentially dangerous situation; now he had to do both. He vowed to work harder on his command of Italian and the accent.

#####

Few people gave what appeared to be a middle-aged man escorting his handicapped father through the streets of Rome a second look. Napoleon Solo actually had two people force some money on him. He accepted humbly and gratefully, to keep up appearances. About halfway to the gypsy camp, Napoleon pulled Illya off into a dark doorway.

“You’re getting tired. Let me have the knapsack.”

“No, I’m fine,” Illya insisted. “Let’s go. It will be dark soon, and I prefer to walk into camp in the daylight.”

Napoleon sighed. “Don’t make me pull rank on you, Illya. I can’t afford having you pass out on me. Now, give me the ‘sack.”

Illya knew that Napoleon was firm on this. Reluctantly, he yielded the knapsack, but not until he withdrew a few items and secreted them on his person. He hated it when Napoleon was right.

#####

Solo and Kuryakin found the gypsy enclave just before sunset. They shed their padding -- skulking would go easier without it. Napoleon scouted the area just to be sure there was no non-gypsy presence, even though Illya reassured him it was highly unlikely that his THRUSH dossier contained anything about his past association with the Romani.

Solo returned to the spot where Kuryakin, now minus his wig, wrinkles, and tan, was surveying the camp. The gypsies were busily lighting more fires and preparing for the evening meal. The younger children were playing, but the older ones were doing various chores. “All clear. What next? Do you just walk in unannounced?”

Illya gave his partner a condescending look. “Yes,” he said simply. Illya took off the wig, then began limping stiffly into camp. As soon as he emerged from their observation post, Illya began speaking rapidly in a language Napoleon did not readily recognize.

All activity ceased, except for a couple of men who drew weapons -- one a revolver, the other an ornate throwing knife. One man, who was middle-aged, tall, muscular, and dark, with curly hair and a full mustache, challenged the small, blond stranger with the dark, wrinkled skin. Illya approached him without hesitation and only stopped talking to bow. He spoke for a couple of minutes more before stopping. The crowd hesitated, waiting for the reaction of their leader. The big gypsy man walked right up to Illya, grasped him by the shoulders, and then promptly began kissing him on each cheek. The rest of the tribe swarmed the two men, with everyone chattering happily and trying to touch the U.N.C.L.E. agent in some way to welcome him.

Napoleon had pulled his pistol from its holster as soon as Illya had stepped from cover; he wanted to be ready should it be necessary to subdue anyone. Relieved that such action would not be required, he holstered the pistol and cautiously left cover to enter the camp.

Kuryakin felt his presence. After considerable effort, he finally opened a hole in the throng around him. “Please, my family, welcome my friend Napoleon Solo, who has saved my life as I have saved his. And I ask that you speak in English, as he does not know our language.” He waved Napoleon over to him.

“Good evening,” Solo said graciously as he made eye contact with as many Romani as he could. In a matter of seconds, he, too, was welcomed vocally and physically into the camp. Then several of the older women took the exhausted Illya under their collective wing and led him to a log bench by one of the cook fires. The younger women in the camp crowded around him, eager to look at someone with blue eyes.

Napoleon found himself pulled and pushed by several youngsters to the cook fire just to the right of Illya’s. The big man who had embraced Illya clapped Napoleon on his shoulder. “Anyone who is a friend of the ‘Little Warrior of Kiev’ is most welcome in our humble camp. I am Gustav, the leader of this band. Illya Nickovetch has said we have important business to discuss, but first we will eat and drink.” He grinned widely and turned to leave, but Napoleon stopped him.

“What to you mean, ‘Little Warrior’?”

Gustav regarded Napoleon Solo with surprise at first, then with understanding. “The stories about your friend have told of his reluctance to speak of himself. They must be true. He came to live with some of the Romani in Ukraine during the war, for his protection -- the Nazis were after him. Instead, he ended up saving his protectors from the concentration camps and sure death. It is said he did things that no one, certainly not a young boy, should have to do.” The big gypsy paused and contemplated the astonished expression on the American agent’s face. “I say too much, and I will say no more. That is up to Illya Nickovetch.” He left Napoleon dumbfounded and went about quietly posting guards around the camp’s perimeter.

The Russian agent had been watching the conversation between the two men, but had been unable to hear. Napoleon looked speechless and didn’t move for a few moments after Gustav had left him. Illya caught the strange look Napoleon flashed his way before his attention was pulled back to the children who wanted to hear an American speak. That look sent a shiver up and down Illya’s spine. He hoped they had not spoken of Kiev; he didn’t want anyone to know about that, not even his best friend. Only one other person had actually known what he had done (the gypsies, Nazis, and Soviets only suspected), but now he was dead along with his thought translator. That recent affair in Paris and now this reunion with the Romani dredged up a number of unwanted memories. Illya fought to bury those memories as he turned his attention to the women’s activities.

One of the women, Paulina, was one of the tribe’s _drabarni_. Her salt-and-pepper hair was mostly covered by a scarf with a colorful, complicated pattern and her dark eyes gleamed with intelligence and empathy. Once Kuryakin had been seated by the fire, she had hurried off to one of the brightly decorated wagons to retrieve her supplies. “Illya Nickovetch,” she called out, “come to me for healing now. I will make your leg better. There is time before we eat.” Those surrounding Illya quieted and backed away from the blond man. With effort, he rose from the log bench and limped painfully toward the tent that Paulina was indicating he should enter. “You are too young a man to need a stick to walk.” She hugged him to her ample bosom. “I will get you better.” She released him. Illya found himself taking several deep breaths after coming up from the depths. He hobbled into the tent, but not after he received a sharp but motherly swat on his backside. As Paulina pulled the flap down over the entrance, Illya could hear Napoleon laughing at his expense.

#####

Supper in the gypsy camp was a boisterous event. Everyone talked louder than the next person, and all wanted to hear everything their two visitors had to say. The meal was a thick soup of vegetables, rice, and spices and little meat. To sop up the remaining liquid, they used a heavy, crusty, dark bread. Accompanying the meal was a semi-dry red wine. Napoleon had several cups; Illya stopped at one.

After the supper, the men, including the U.N.C.L.E. agents, sat around one of the fires on the edge of camp, while the women cleaned up and the children began to prepare for bed. Someone passed around a pack of Turkish cigarettes and matches. Both Napoleon and Illya declined the proffered smoking materials, as did several of the gypsy men. They sat in silence, enjoying the warm, Italian fall night filled with stars.

About halfway through his cigarette, Gustav finally broke the amiable silence. “Illya Nickovetch, you said you need our help. I have guards posted, as you have asked. Anything more, we will do for you as well.”

“This could be dangerous. And even if everything goes well, you may be discovered later to have helped us, and you would be in danger again.”

Gustav shook his head. “We are gypsies. We are not trusted by those who do not know us. We do our best to hide our identity. We live with danger every day. But you are family. We will do anything you ask.” The men quietly agreed with their leader.

Kuryakin, though conflicted about putting his gypsy family in danger and needing to fulfill his assignment, began to fill them in on their predicament. Napoleon interjected on occasion. They told them no more than what was absolutely necessary. At least this way, the Romani had some protection should THRUSH rear its ugly and deadly beak.

Once the two U.N.C.L.E. agents finished speaking, the circle of men fell silent again. Gustav gestured to two of the men, both of whom appeared to be in their twenties and heavily muscled, to come to him. He whispered to them for a few moments. They nodded several times. Gustav faced the U.N.C.L.E. agents again.

“I suggest my sons Reynaldo and Emil take you to the port city of Giulianova. It is on the Adriatic Sea, about 120 miles from here. You will go by wagon.” He held his hand up for silence as both agents began to protest. “Yes, I know you are in a rush, but we cannot hide you in our car as we can the wagon. If you do not get there, then what does time matter?” Neither man could argue with that. “Once at Giulianova, my sons will take you to the rich husband of one of our women. He has a boat, and will take you to Venice.” Gustav said this with such finality that Solo and Kuryakin knew not to argue with him. Besides, it was a sound plan.

“We should leave as soon as possible, Gustav,” said Napoleon. “The longer we stay here, the greater chance that our enemies will find us in their search. We don’t want to put you in unnecessary danger.”

“Agreed. My sons will prepare the wagon and the horses now.” The two young men clicked their heels and left quickly to do as their father directed.

Illya spoke next. He chose to speak in the gypsy language, and directed his words to the group of men. No one said anything in return, but they all nodded solemnly. Illya rose, relying heavily on the cane. “Come on, Napoleon, before we wear out our welcome.”

Solo stretched his arms languidly. “Gustav, we cannot thank you enough for your hospitality and generosity. We will do everything in our power to see that your two fine sons return to you safe and sound.” He rose, only to plummet to the ground. After swearing a bit under his breath, he said simply, “I think my foot went to sleep.”

After several heartbeats, Gustav started laughing. At first, it was almost to himself, but rapidly the laugh became loud and infectious. Soon all the men, including Solo and Kuryakin, joined him.

Paulina, accompanied by several women, rushed over to investigate this outburst. She elbowed her way through relieved to find that Solo, not Kuryakin, was the one on the ground. She patted her large bosom several times and shouted for the men to stop their laughing because the youngest children were trying to fall asleep. She almost picked Illya up and practically carried him to the working wagon he was to travel in. He dared not protest. Instead, he sat down on one of the stairs leading up to the back of the wagon. Paulina bustled off, muttering something about preparing for his and the others’ departure. By then, Napoleon’s foot had returned to normal. He jumped up and with great dignity brushed himself off. As he strode toward the wagon, he received several enthusiastic claps on the back.

Gustav clapped his hands loudly and called for the attention of his tribe. “Our honored guests have urgent business and must be leaving soon. Let us now say our good-byes.” Suddenly, the agents were the recipients of numerous hugs and kisses and pleas to return soon. Kuryakin reveled in the affection of _his_ family-by-chance, and missed his family-by-blood just a touch less.

Solo was beginning to feel overwhelmed by the warmth and acceptance of the gypsies, and he was anxious to get on the road. Sensing that his partner would just as soon stay, Napoleon took the initiative to stop the farewells. Under his breath, he verbally prodded Kuryakin to work his way into the wagon. Reluctantly, he eased his behind up the stairs to finally sit on the floor of the wagon. Solo nudged him over with his hand and jumped up to sit next to Illya. One of the younger men had procured a lute-like instrument from one of the house wagon and started playing a sort of dance tune. About eight of the women began dancing to it, sedately swirling their skirts in a colorful goodbye.

Paulina rushed over to the two agents and thrust a bulging burlap sack at them. “Here, something to ease the emptiness in your stomachs and in your souls in your travels. Take good care, Illya Nickovetch,” she said softly but with an intensity that impressed both men. “And you, too, friend of our Little Warrior.” Her eyes began to fill with tears.

Gustav gestured to Reynaldo, who held the reins to the draft horses, to leave. As the wagon pulled away, the gypsies and the two agents waved until the wagon was far out of the light of the fires. Both agents felt a little sad as they left the Romani. And worried, should THRUSH find out about their assistance. Neither spoke as they slid deep into the wagon after dropping the flap over the back.

#####

Almost immediately, the clip-clop of the horses, the warmth of the night, the easing of his leg pain, and Emil’s rich baritone that treated them all to love ballads lulled the exhausted Russian agent to sleep. Napoleon Solo fought the urge to close his eyes; he would not rest until they were far from Rome.

This was fortunate because less than four miles from the enclave, Solo heard Reynaldo urgently whisper, “Visitors!” Solo cautiously shook Illya awake. Solo felt Illya go for his pistol before he saw him open his eyes. The American agent leaned into his partner to whisper in his ear, “Where to hide?”

With his speed only slightly impaired, Kuryakin felt along the floor of the wagon until he found what he was looking for. As he grinned at his success, they heard someone call out in Italian, “Stop! We are the police and are looking for two killers!” Solo gestured for Kuryakin to hurry. Illya lost his smile and yanked up on a small recessed handle. They both felt their hearts stop when they heard a loud creaking noise. They were sure that everyone within the district was sure to have heard it as well.

But fortunately, the sound was not as loud as they imagined. Plus, Emil’s singing and Reynaldo’s call to the horses to stop covered what little sound escaped the wagon. Illya gestured for Napoleon to crawl into the false bottom of the wagon, then followed right behind him with the cane clutched tightly to his body. Kuryakin was just able to close the door over them -- which thankfully didn’t creak on the way down -- before the back wagon flap was raised. In that same second, the two agents could see thin streaks of light enter their temporary tomb as someone used a bright light to illuminate the wagon’s interior. The light vanished. They heard the flap come down just as someone said, “Nothing back here but a sack. I saw bread hanging out the top.”

The police questioned the two brothers for a few minutes. When one of the policemen gave descriptions of Solo and Kuryakin as the “killers,” the two agents confirmed what they suspected were THRUSHmen all along and that THRUSH was very anxious to pick up their trail again. The brothers wove a suitable story of going to pick up goods for sale in Rome from relatives in a nearby village to explain why they were on the road at night. The THRUSHmen/police seemed to accept their story and let them pass. Solo and Kuryakin began breathing again and stayed in hiding. Emil resumed his singing.

After traveling about another mile, Reynaldo said over Emil’s crooning, “I think it is safe for you to come out.” Illya raised the trapdoor, which groaned once again, and wrestled himself out of the hideaway. He rolled away so Napoleon could get out. Both of Napoleon’s calves had begun to spasm soon after entering the small space so getting out was difficult. As soon as he reached the open space of the wagon, he began vigorously massaging the cramping muscles. Keeping his voice low, he said, “If I believed in reincarnation, I’d pray not to come back as a sardine! How’re you doing, Illya?”

Kuryakin took a moment to respond so Solo knew the word wouldn’t be good from him. “I am fine,” he lied rather unconvincingly. All of the activity had awakened the pain in his leg with a vengeance, and he was sure the injury had started bleeding again. “But if I _ever_ see Sophie again…” He let the threat hang in the air.

Napoleon grinned mischievously. “So you’re going to ask her to marry you. Can I be the best man?” He was unable to dodge the swift kick to his ribs. Briefly, he feigned pain from the pulled punch. “I’ll check in with Venice and Mr. Waverly. You go back to sleep so you can dream of your future bride.”

“Well, Napoleon, at least I have a woman who wants me for something more than a fling. And you need a bath.” Illya could tell his partner did not have a retort for that one and gave himself a point. Then he settled in to work on bringing his pain under control. He would worry about changing the dressing in the morning. The last he heard was Solo quietly speaking into his communicator, requesting that Channel R be opened and on priority scramble.

#####

The THRUSH satrap in Rome, Vittorio Arzanotti, was furious with his operatives. He could not understand how it was possible to lose two men, one of whom was blond and crippled. Now they had no idea if the U.N.C.L.E. agents were still headed for Venice, or if they had already arrived. THRUSH Europe would not be happy. Neither would Central, since they suspected something important was up; otherwise Waverly would have ordered his wounded man straight back to New York for a quick recuperation.

_Well, I’m not happy, either. Someone will pay for this blunder, and it won’t be me!_ Arzanotti clenched his fists, then pounded the imported cherry table in front of him several times. His secretary Pietro rushed in to see what the matter was. He blanched and swooned when he saw the obvious rage his boss was in and when he realized he had entered the sumptuous, almost pretentious office without knocking -- very nearly a hanging offense.

Fortunately for Pietro, Arzanotti didn’t notice the absence of a knock on the door. On seeing his secretary, the satrap stopped the thumping and ran out as fast as his bandy legs could carry him from behind the table to stand nose-to-nose -- his preferred posture for intimidation - with Pietro. But to actually stand this way with most adults, Arzanotti needed both a step stool and shoe lifts. This always helped Pietro and others cope with this invasion of their personal space by such an unpleasant man.

“Find me those two completely inept creatures who dare call themselves agents who lost those U.N.C.L.E. men in the airport, NOW! And I want them here yesterday, or _you_ will be the one to answer to THRUSH Europe.” Pietro, already petrified of Arzanotti, lost the ability to speak and move once he thought he might take the blame. He just stood there, trembling, mouth gaping open, hoping not to soil himself. “Well? What are you waiting for, you incompetent boob?” the satrap bellowed.

Finally, Pietro’s voluntary motor system began to work on its own. He took a large step backwards, bowed slightly at the waist, then streaked out of the room. He was at his desk when he remembered he hadn’t closed the door behind him. He looked around in terror to see the short, bald man with the protruding belly, the bulbous nose, and the chicken legs with his hands on his hips and wearing a murderous stare. Pietro emitted a strangled squeal from his throat and rushed to close the door, taking extra care not to slam it. He immediately sank to his knees, crossed himself, and offered a prayer of thanks that Arzanotti had not beaten him when he was this mad, because the beating would definitely not be enjoyable. A minute later, he was back at his desk, recalling Elena and Antonio who were still combing Rome and the immediate vicinity in hopes of finding the U.N.C.L.E. agents. _It’s a good thing I believe in what THRUSH is doing, or I would have left that tyrant, that imitation ‘Il Duce’ a long time ago_ , the young secretary thought as he waited for either of the two to respond to his call.

The intercom buzzed at Pietro’s desk. “Yes, sir,” he answered promptly. He didn’t want to provoke further rage in his boss.

“Notify Lucchesi in Venice that we were unable…no, don’t tell him that.” Arzanotti paused. “Say that his men must cover every possible entrance into Venice and U.N.C.L.E. headquarters there, in the unlikely event that the two agents lose their THRUSH pursuers.” He chuckled hatefully. “Yes, tell them that. And have those two imbeciles wait for me. I need to see Gina. Should my wife call, tell her I’m busy.”

“Yes, sir.” Pietro held his breath for a few moments until he heard Arzanotti’s private door close. He shook his head, amazed that not just one but two beautiful women actually found his superior attractive. He sat back, put his feet up on the desk, and waited for the two imbeciles to call him back.

#####

Illya Kuryakin was having a nightmare. Being back among the Romani and having the magician learn his terrible secret all too recently had deeply disturbed the Russian agent. Now the nightmare, which hadn’t bothered him for some time, was back. Just as the large, stubby hand reached for his throat, he uttered a small cry, opened his eyes, and sat upright with a start. Hand at his own throat, he saw his partner looking at him with great concern. Illya was relieved he had not continued the nightmare once awake and done to Napoleon Solo what he had done to the owner of that hand more than twenty years ago.

In the minute amount of light that the three-quarter moon provided through the slats of the wagon, the CEA could see that Illya’s hair was matted down and his shirt seemed to cling to his skin. It wasn’t until Solo laid his right hand gently on Illya’s left arm that he realized the smaller man was completely drenched in sweat. “Bad dream, huh, _tovarisch_?”

Illya broke eye contact and pulled away from Solo’s touch. “Yes. Sophie,” he lied. He knew Napoleon knew it was a lie. But he also knew Napoleon understood it was his way of telling him that the real nightmare’s content was personal, was not his to know. “I’ve been asleep long enough. It’s your turn.”

“If you insist.”

“I insist.”

“OK, gimme two hours, then I’ll stand watch again.” Napoleon was very curious about his friend’s past, and now especially wanted to know what had happened at Kiev, but he respected Illya’s desire to keep a good portion of his life private. “I hope I dream about Lisa Rogers, Waverly’s new assistant-in-training. She’s learning communications right now. She ought to be up to speed in everything in a couple of years. Then I’ll get to see her more often. Have you seen the way she walks? It’s like…”

“Napoleon?” Illya asked quietly.

“Yeah, what?”

“Shut up and go to sleep. You’ve already wasted 45 seconds of your two hours.”

“I’m just preparing my brain to dream about the luscious Miss Rogers. A pre-dream suggestion, if you like. If I do dream about her, would you like to…”

“No,” Illya interrupted again. “I think I might be better off not knowing this particular fantasy of yours. Now if you don’t go to sleep immediately, I will and you can take guard again.” Illya knew this was an idle threat. He had no intentions of sleeping for a while; he didn’t want to risk falling back to sleep and back into that horrific past.

“OK, pal, but you don’t know what you’re missing.” Solo stretched out fully on the floor of the wagon, his hands tucked behind his head and ankles crossed. It took him a few minutes to fall into a tense, light slumber.

Illya listened to the sound of the horses’ hooves, the creaking wagon, and Solo’s heavy, even breathing. He wished Emil would start singing again.

#####

Napoleon Solo awoke with a start. Instinctively, he reached for his pistol, but saw it was not necessary. The sun had risen and its light poured in from the front of the wagon. He saw his partner turn from having a conversation with Emil and Reynaldo. “It’s about time you woke up. We’re almost at Giulianova. We should eat and get in costume.”

Solo pulled his watch from a pocket in his jumpsuit. He had been asleep for hours. “Illya.”

Kuryakin, who was busily pulling food out of the burlap sack, stopped abruptly when he heard the controlled anger in his partner’s tone. “I couldn’t sleep, so there was no sense in waking you,” he replied evenly, but with just a hint of daring Solo to challenge his decision. When Solo did not reply, Illya handed him a hunk of bread, a wedge of cheese, and a slice of the prosciutto. Solo watched as his partner gave the same to the brothers. He didn’t begin eating until he saw Illya tear off a piece of bread and bite into his own cheese wedge.

All four men quickly had their fill. Illya passed around a skin of water. Each drank from the skin and poured a small amount on his face to clear the dust of travel. The sun promised another warm day. The sky was a jeweled blue and held just a sprinkling of clouds. Getting to Venice by boat would be a treat.

Solo opened the back flap of the wagon for more light so they could get to the work of repairing their meager but so far effective disguises. He turned back and surveyed his partner. He didn’t like what he saw -- face drawn and very pale, exhausted eyes, tight lips. It was obvious that the pain and the nightmare were having terrible effects on the Russian. “Illya, I’m ordering you to take some of your pain pills.” His tone left no room for disagreement. “And after you’ve taken them, help me re-glue this mustache. It’s almost off on the right.”

Kuryakin grudgingly followed his superior’s orders. He dry-swallowed one pain pill. Next, he gathered the supplies required to change his leg dressing. Without standing, he worked his trousers down to his ankles, then began unwrapping the old dressing. Solo almost said something about the bloody stain, but held back. He watched as Illya cleaned the wound with some of the remaining water. Closer inspection revealed that the infection was definitely clearing up, though it would take some time and rest before the wound would finally stop bleeding and close. Rest would have to wait.

The Russian deftly redressed the injury. Returning his trousers back to their customary position, however, proved more than he could handle. Solo was at his side instantly to help. Illya, feeling ashamed, accepted the offered assistance. Once that was accomplished, Kuryakin leaned back on his hands, clenched his eyes tightly, and forced down the pain that the movement had brought rushing back. After a few moments, he said quietly, “Time to get to work.”

Napoleon withdrew the necessary materials for their disguises from the knapsack, resisting the temptation to see everything Illya had packed in it. He handed his friend the glue and scooted close to him so Illya could re-attach the now-lopsided mustache. That done, Illya asked, “Do you have a mirror?”

“No, of course not. You mean you don’t?” Napoleon was truly surprised as he pointed at the knapsack.

“I don’t, unfortunately. I suppose you will have to do my makeup, or guide me through it. Which will it be?”

Napoleon was put out; he was not very good with disguises that involved much more than attaching fake hair. But having Illya do his own makeup while under the influence of a narcotic and without a mirror was not a very viable option. “I’ll do it,” he muttered. “But I can’t do it while we’re moving.”

Illya called out to Reynaldo and Emil in one of the gypsy languages. Presently, the wagon stopped, and the brothers twisted to look into the wagon. Solo applied the “tan” and wrinkles with a bit of coaching from Illya. After ten minutes or so, Solo triumphantly said, “Voilà!” and indicated that the gypsy brothers should take a look at the finished product.

The brothers carefully scrutinized Kuryakin’s new countenance. Emil tried hard to stifle a laugh. This prompted Illya to put on the wig and sunglasses. It was too much for Emil who burst out in a full-bodied guffaw. Reynaldo elbowed and shushed his brother. “I suppose it will do,” he said in English. Then he, too, burst out in peals of laughter.

Before Kuryakin could speak, Napoleon said, “You _know_ disguises aren’t my strong point. Next time, remember the mirror.” He proceeded to empty the burlap bag, then shove it inside his jumpsuit. Hands on his hips, he said, “Well, let’s get a move on.”

Illya shook his head in exasperation. Napoleon Solo had won this round. The wagon began to move again.

#####

Luigi Lucchesi, the head of the small THRUSH satrapy in Venice, sipped the remainder of his morning coffee while he sat on the balcony of his apartment on the Grand Canal. He had just finished reviewing the dossiers on the two U.N.C.L.E. agents for the third time and still lacked enough understanding of them to predict their most likely course of action. Certainly, all known entrances to U.N.C.L.E.-Venice were heavily monitored. But that wasn’t enough when it involved these two men. After the message from Arzanotti during the night, Lucchesi had called in THRUSH muscle from northern Italy, southern France, and Greece. His only option was to blanket the city and to follow every person who left the U.N.C.L.E. office. Arzanotti and the two who had actually seen the U.N.C.L.E. agents were due to arrive in Venice by mid-morning. _Arzanotti, that pompous ass!_ thought Lucchesi, _his incompetence rears up again and I am left to do the dirty work. I should be the one next in line for promotion to THRUSH Central._

His housekeeper interrupted his thoughts. She carried with her the THRUSH telephone, which she placed gently on the glass tabletop. “So sorry to bother you, sir, but a call for you,” she said with deference.

“Thank you, Lucia. I will call for you when I need you.” The old woman bowed at the waist and quickly left the balcony.

Lucchesi cleared his throat and said into the receiver, “Good morning. Yes, sir?”

“Ah, Luigi, it is good to speak with you. It has been too long since I have been in your beautiful city.” Lucchesi sighed silently with relief -- the caller from THRUSH Central was as close to a friend that anyone in that organization could be. He wondered if the caller was wearing his customary green hat. “Central is extremely interested in finding out what is happening with those two U.N.C.L.E. agents. We know something is going on. Do you have them under surveillance yet?”

“No, not yet, sir. However, I already have the city filled with our own agents. Those two men would have to be invisible to escape detection.”

“Unfortunately, Luigi, those two men do seem invisible at times. They are quite gifted in eluding us.”

“Do not worry, sir, I have everything under control. Solo and Kuryakin will not get into or out of Venice without our knowing it.”

“Excellent! I am depending on you, my friend. It would be preferable if you could capture them _before_ they leave the city. Our intelligence indicates that they are most likely picking something up in Venice, rather than dropping anything off there.”

“Of course, sir. I will inform our men. We will do our best.”

“Or pay the consequences, of course. You understand. Call me when you have news, or if you require any of Central’s ‘special’ resources.” The man laughed.

Lucchesi gulped. “I understand, sir. I will report when we have them in hand.”

“Very good, Luigi. I know I can count on you.” The man unceremoniously broke the connection.

Lucchesi stared at the receiver for a few moments before he replaced it in its cradle. Though the morning was young and still cool, he was perspiring. He withdrew a burgundy-colored silk handkerchief from a vest pocket of his silk suit and dabbed perspiration from his face and neck. He rang the bell for Lucia.

She arrived a few moments later, hands clasped in front of her and head bowed. “Yes, sir?”

“Lucia, be so kind as to bring Arzanotti and his companions to me instantly upon their arrival. And take this phone away.” He then stared blankly over his templed fingers at the Grand Canal.

#####

Both U.N.C.L.E. agents thought it best that Reynaldo and Emil drop them off on the outskirts of Giulianova, thereby decreasing the likelihood that the gypsies’ assistance would be discovered. The brothers reluctantly agreed, and gave Solo and Kuryakin explicit instructions on how to get to the dock where the boat in question was moored. Napoleon endured the double-cheek kissing from the gypsies, while Illya seemed to revel in it and the bear hugs that accompanied the kissing. As the two rattled off in their wagon, Napoleon almost began to tease his partner, but bit his lip when he remembered that the gypsies were Illya’s family. They watched until the wagon was out of sight.

Kuryakin adjusted his sunglasses. “Let’s go. And we better stay in character until we are safely on the boat.”

“Yes, father. I’ve got the ruck.”

They made good time in getting to the marina, since Kuryakin’s pain was under good control. Napoleon had to stop several people until he found one who knew where the mooring was. As they walked the last few yards to their destination, Napoleon noticed that Illya was taking a lot of slow deep breaths. “What’s going on?” he asked quietly through his teeth.

“Have you forgotten I was in the Navy? I…like the smell of the sea air.” _The truth is,_ he thought, _I love everything about the sea, but Napoleon doesn’t need to know that._

“I thought you served on submarines. Not many opportunities to smell the ocean air there.”

“I did. But I also had a cruise on a destroyer.”

“Is there _anything_ you haven’t done?” Illya was about to respond, but Solo cut him off. “That was a rhetorical question.” Solo adjusted the knapsack on this back so it would come off quickly in an emergency. After a few more steps, he stopped and stared at the boat he thought might be the one. Illya, trying to keep in character, finally ended the silence. “That’s no boat. That’s a yacht.” It was a thirty-footer, made with marine-grade teak.

“If it’s the one we’re looking for, we’re in luck. I think it’s a racing yacht.”

Just then, a tall, deeply tanned, muscular man whose only sign of age was his almost gray beard appeared on deck. “Hello, there,” his voice boomed in Italian. “Have you lost your way?”

Napoleon cleared his throat. “I am not sure. Perhaps you can help us. We are looking for Gianni Di Rossi.”

The man regarded the pair on the dock. After a few moments, he said, “Why do you look for this man?”

Both agents knew they had found him. Kuryakin answered in the language of the tribe they had just left, “Gustav said this man would help us.”

The man on deck laughed heartily and began gesturing wildly. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” he replied in Italian. “Come, come on board. Give us news of my wife’s family, eat and drink with us, and accept whatever help we may humbly give!” He turned to the cabin behind him. “Nadia! Come welcome our guests.” Di Rossi strode quickly toward and then down the small gangplank that stretched from the yacht to the dock. “Here, let me help you,” he said as he grasped Kuryakin’s right arm firmly. Kuryakin accepted the help in order to keep up appearances. He relinquished his own grip of Napoleon’s arm and dutifully shuffled and limped up the gangplank with his partner following closely.

By the time they set foot on the yacht, Nadia was waiting for them. Both U.N.C.L.E. agents were taken aback by what they saw, with Illya trying with great difficulty not to show it: a woman in her mid-twenties, almost six feet tall, with sun-kissed auburn hair, large and twinkling dark brown eyes, flawless olive skin, a hour-glass figure clad in a white bikini. It took every ounce of willpower Napoleon could call up to keep from drooling.

“Gentlemen, my wife Nadia. I am quite lucky that this delightful, intelligent woman would take a man of my years as her husband. But, please, let us go inside. You must be tired, and I fear talking of her family in public. Too many people hate her…kind for no reason.” Without a word, Nadia took Illya’s left hand and wrapped it around her right forearm and guided him to the cabin. Napoleon fought back a pang of jealousy.

While the men got comfortably settled in the opulent main room of the cabin, Nadia left briefly to instruct the servants to bring refreshments. On her return, she chose to sit on the arm of the overstuffed chair her husband occupied, then placed a long arm around his broad shoulders. She studied the old man with the white curly hair closely.

“Please, gentlemen, you say Gustav has sent you to me. Who are you and how may we help you? And what news of Nadia’s family?”

Simultaneously, Napoleon removed the burlap sack that had been his belly and Kuryakin removed the wig and sunglasses. Gianni inhaled sharply, but Nadia had no reaction. “My name is Napoleon Solo, and my companion here is Illya…”

“Nickovetch Kuryakin,” Nadia finished. All three men stared at her. “Soon after the war, some Romani from Ukraine came to visit. One man told of a Russian boy with blond hair and sad blue eyes who had saved them and they him. I felt you were that boy when I took your hand.” She took her husband’s right hand in both of hers. “We will do anything you ask, and more.” Her eyes gazed unwaveringly into Illya’s. He found himself unable -- no, unwilling -- to break eye contact.

“Uh, my wife has this…gift. Neither she nor I can explain it.” Di Rossi shrugged. “Now, tell us your needs.”

“Signore Di Rossi, does anyone on your staff speak English?” inquired Solo.

“No, only Italian, Greek, and Turkish. But Nadia and I both speak English. It is necessary for my business.”

“Excellent. My partner and I would prefer to speak in English, if that is acceptable?”

“Of course,” Di Rossi responded in British-accented English. “You want to keep your business among as few people as possible. So be it. Nadia,” he said, finally forcing his wife and Kuryakin to break eye contact, “please, would you mind serving the refreshments yourself? The less contact the staff has…”

She leaned over and kissed her husband’s forehead. She looked at Solo, then again at Kuryakin, then left for the galley. Solo was able to catch Illya’s attention and shot him a look that read, _we’ve got to talk_. Illya pretended not to read it.

While Nadia was away, the two agents discovered that Di Rossi had made a fortune in manufacturing soccer equipment after graduating from Oxford (which explained the British accent to his English). Living in Giulianova, home for both a very good football team and an active boating culture, he decided to exploit the latter activity as well, so he built custom yachts. Both businesses took him all over Europe and northern Africa. He had met Nadia on a trip to Rome -- she was the chambermaid for his hotel suite. They made an instant connection and were married within six months. “We hope…”

“…to have a baby soon.” Nadia finished the sentence for Gianni as she returned from the galley. Solo jumped up to assist her with the large tray she carried laden with fruit, bread, cheese, and carafes of water and juices. She smiled her thanks as she let him take the tray from her. He almost dropped it because it was much heavier than he expected, since she had not struggled with it at all. He reddened a bit and hoped that Illya had not noticed. Checking his partner with his peripheral vision, he saw that the Russian had not missed a thing. Solo inwardly grimaced; _he won’t let me live this one down_ , he thought.

As they leisurely ate and drank, Illya explained their need without revealing any information that might compromise them should they be found out. Then Napoleon requested they arrive in Venice at dusk, to take advantage of the tricky light.

“Then we must leave _pronto_! I will certainly have you in Venezia before then. I will make it ready to ship out.” He hurriedly left for the bridge, calling out the names of the crew at the top of his lungs.

Nadia Di Rossi turned to Illya. “Something troubles you, and you have not slept,” she said softly in her native language. “You lost much saving my people. It is a debt we will never be able to repay. But I will give you sleep now. Come with me.” She left the room without looking back. Illya had a difficult time getting out of the deep chair, and the activity drained him. Once he stood, he looked at Napoleon. “She wants me to rest. I don’t think I have a choice.” Napoleon nodded, and they both followed the bikini-clad woman.

She had opened a door into a bedroom decorated in forest green and burgundy. She pulled back the bedspread and top sheet and indicated that Illya should lie down. He hobbled over to the bed and eased himself down. He propped the cane within easy reach. Finally, he swung his legs up, with left arm helping left leg, and rested his head on the pillow. He admitted to himself that it was extremely comfortable.

Nadia said, “Close your eyes.” Kuryakin did so. Within moments he felt her presence getting closer, then felt her breath. He tensed involuntarily. She mumbled something he could not make out. Next, she lightly kissed each closed eyelid. He barely felt her draw away before a deep slumber overtook him.

Napoleon watched from the threshold. He looked questioningly at her as she turned away from his friend. “He will have dreamless sleep and will wake refreshed.”

“But how…?”

Nadia gave Solo an enigmatic smile. “Let me tell you some things about the gypsy way.” Just then, the yacht’s two powerful engines roared to life. Napoleon looked at his partner, who seemed to be sound asleep despite the sudden increase in noise. Then he followed Nadia back to the main room.

#####

The change in the sound coming from the yacht’s engines as they slowed awakened Illya Kuryakin from his extended nap. He felt rested and was very pleased he had not had the nightmare. He could hear Di Rossi giving orders to his crew. Since it wasn’t yet dusk, they would probably moor here, Kuryakin reckoned. He quickly sat up on the side of the bed, only to be greeted by pain, dizziness, and nausea again. He cursed Sophie again.

Someone tapped lightly on the door to the bedroom as it opened. Without waiting to see who it was, Kuryakin said, “Come in, Napoleon.”

Napoleon flashed his partner a quick grin. “Good to see I didn’t wake you. We’re only a few miles from Venice. We’ll stay here until just before twilight.” He closed the door and plopped down on a wing chair. “While you slept last night and this afternoon, I’ve been making a few arrangements. First, I think we should dump the man-and-his-father charade.”

“Yes, I agree. Someone in Rome may have seen us. And if THRUSH is worth its salt, their Rome personnel will be here looking for anyone familiar.”

“My reasoning exactly.” Solo paused while he regarded his partner. The CEA could tell Illya was straining to speak normally and that the pain had returned. “Nadia has a henna rinse which I’ll use on my hair. One of the crew is my size and I’ll be wearing a few of his items. Another crewman is about your size. Plus, we found a black watchman’s cap that should cover most of your hair. Considering it will be dusk and getting darker, we shouldn’t have to worry about anyone spotting your baby blues.”

“Sounds good -- crew leaving a yacht. Better than two old men.”

“Gianni will drop us off as close to the Piazza San Marco as possible. I’ve instructed U.N.C.L.E.-Venice to have a friend of a friend pick us up at…”

“Let me guess. Ala Napoleonica?”

Solo’s eyebrows tried to meet his hairline. “Smart Russian.”

“No, predictable partner.”

Napoleon nodded once and gave only a left-sided smile. “Then we’ll play it by ear on how we get to HQ in the Santa Croce sector. There’s a private bath right next door with everything you need, including the wound dressings and your new clothes. Call if you need anything -- I’ll be right across the hall in the other bath.”

#####

Luigi Lucchesi, with Vittorio Arzanotti and the two THRUSHes who had lost the U.N.C.L.E. agents in the Rome airport in tow, slowly cruised the canals of Venice in a speedboat. They had been together since late morning, except for answering a few calls of Mother Nature. Now it was twilight, and no one on the craft had much patience left.

“I _must_ get off this boat for a bit,” Arzanotti said petulantly. “We are close to Piazza San Marco. Dock somewhere, Lucchesi, and let us walk a bit.”

Lucchesi hissed at the troll-like man under his breath. He quickly found a place to moor the boat. Antonio got off first and helped Arzanotti achieve solid ground. It took both Antonio’s pulling and Lucchesi’s pushing to get Elena off the boat. Lucchesi cursed this time.

“I have a number of operatives posted here, Arzanotti.” The Rome satrap noticed that his Venice counterpart did not use a courtesy title, and filed that away for possible use against him in the future. “As you know, they have reported nothing out of the ordinary all day.”

The deeply offended Roman snarled, “That may be so, _Lucchesi_ , but these U.N.C.L.E. agents are notorious for losing themselves and for escaping. And should they lose themselves, _you_ will not escape Central’s wrath. After all, Venice is _your_ territory.” Arzanotti smiled smugly.

Lucchesi almost bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. He took a deep breath to calm his nerves, pulled himself up to his full height of almost six feet, and glared down at the nasty creature. “I must have them first to lose them. If I recall, these two cretins of yours had them. Hummmm?”

Arzanotti turned purple and stamped his foot hard. Glaring at Lucchesi, he barked, “Elena! Antonio! Patrol the piazza for a time. Keep your radios open and keep _me_ informed.” He clenched both small hands tightly and wished fervently that Pietro were here for him to beat. He turned on his heel and marched off toward the cathedral.

Elena rushed off in another direction, Antonio in yet another. Lucchesi chortled at the sight of the heavy woman waddling away and of the troll-man’s chicken legs churning across the piazza. He leaned back against a piling, fitted a cigarette in a platinum holder, and settled in to enjoy a smoke.

Antonio wandered almost aimlessly around the piazza. He still suffered from a hangover-type headache from the knockout drug the blond man had shot into him. And he was hungry and thirsty. But most of all, he was deathly afraid about what would probably happen to him should the U.N.C.L.E. agents not be found. He was starting to feel very desperate.

As he neared the section of the piazza called Ala Napoleonica, he spied two sailors walking around. _Something about them…_ he thought. Then the two walked within the light of a lantern. The taller of the two had reddish-brown hair and the beginnings of a good beard and mustache. The other wore a black cap and walked with a stiff right -- no, left -- leg. He dismissed them and continued his stroll. In less than a minute, he abruptly stopped and whirled around to look at the two men again. _The way that big man moves his head, and his body -_ Antonio felt something stir between his legs _\-- oh, how could I forget a body like that! It’s Solo!_

Panicking, Antonio pulled out the radio and his pistol. “Sir, sir, I’ve found them!” he shouted into the radio. “They are in Ala Nap…” He was rudely interrupted by two shots fired by the smaller man ( _Kuryakin!_ ). The first shot disabled the radio, and the second clipped his left ear. Antonio screamed, dropping the useless radio and clamping his hand to his bleeding ear. Just as he was ready to return fire, a little red Fiat pulled up between him and the U.N.C.L.E. agents, giving him very little body to shoot at. He heard a quavering voice shout, “To your U.N.C.L.E.!” Then he lost sight of them completely as they piled in the back seat behind the driver. The Fiat peeled away. Antonio, moving faster than one would have thought possible of a man with his bulk, ran after the car. He began firing wildly. One shot eventually starred the back windshield. Then, with the last bullet in the clip, he shot one of the back tires.

The Fiat fish-tailed and the driver struggled to keep the car under control. Solo, who had pushed Illya into the car ahead of him, had not quite closed the door and quickly found himself flying out of the car. Illya made a grab for him but was rewarded with nothing but air. The back end swerved left, tossing Illya further into the car. The rear swung back to the right but with less force. Illya flew toward the open door and narrowly avoided being completely ejected himself as he clutched the driver’s seat with his both hands, legs outside the car. “Stop! _Alto!_ ” he yelled.

The driver, a middle-aged woman with dark red, curly hair, almost had control of the car. She applied the brakes, but not gently enough to allow Kuryakin to keep his hold on the seat, which was tenuous at best anyway. The rest of him finally joined his legs outside the car. He rolled a couple of times, ending up on his back. By now, the woman had stopped the car and was opening the door. “Stay in!” She apparently understood some English because she obeyed him.

Kuryakin had re-holstered his pistol as Napoleon had pushed him into the vehicle. Now he had it out again. He switched it to his left hand and propped himself up on his right elbow. In the gathering dark, he could see that the THRUSHman now stood just a few feet away from Solo, his gun trained on the U.N.C.L.E. agent’s head. Solo wasn’t moving.

The Russian agent screamed _No!_ to himself and fired twice in rapid succession. The first bullet went through Antonio’s gun arm. The second blew out his left knee. He dropped his weapon and crumpled to the ground, crying hysterically. Solo still did not move.

Kuryakin laid the gun within easy reach. As he unfastened his trousers, he called out to the driver, “Please, I need your help now. It is safe to come out. Hurry, please.”

The woman opened the car door hesitantly. When she saw the blond agent on the ground with open trousers, she shrieked and covered her eyes. Illya, exasperated, said, “I have a stick in my pants that I need for you to get out.”

This time, she screamed, “Mama Mia!” and ducked back into the car.

Kuryakin could hear shouting in the distance. They had very little time left if they were to avoid THRUSH. “ _Signora_ , it is a walking stick. Please, you must hurry!” He looked at the two men not far from him. The THRUSHman was still crying and moaning, and Solo had finally begun to stir. “Na-po-le-on!” Kuryakin shouted as loudly as he could. “Wake up! We have to get out of here now!” He jumped when he felt a hand at his waist. It was their driver. “I help,” she said in heavily accented English.

“ _Grazie, Signora_ ,” the blond agent said with some relief. “This thing” -- indicating the handle of the cane -- “pull straight out.” She did, and looked at it with amazement.

“Help me up now.” She quickly assisted Kuryakin to his feet and handed him the cane. “Get in the car and back it up to him,” he said, pointing to Solo who was trying to stand up by this time. “Do you understand?”

She nodded and said, “I hear English good but-a I no speak much-a.” She rushed back to the Fiat. Illya had already taken off by foot to reach his partner. He got to Solo seconds before the Fiat.

Solo, now standing, swayed a bit and rubbed his head gingerly. “Looks like we got company.” Illya turned in the direction Napoleon had indicated and saw about eight people approaching them. “Let’s put them to sleep.” Illya, who already had his U.N.C.L.E. Special out, thumbed the switch to sleep-inducing darts. He fired several times, striking two of their pursuers. Napoleon was having a difficult time with coordination, so by the time he had his Special out, those not hit by Illya’s darts had made themselves more difficult targets.

“Get in the car,” Illya directed. Napoleon snapped off a couple of shots. They heard one THRUSH groan. The CEA smiled cockily and eased himself into the red car. Illya turned a small ring about two inches from the bottom of the cane. Next, he exposed a trigger in the handle. Taking aim, he said, “Tell her to be ready to get out of here, Napoleon.” He squeezed the trigger and the cane coughed out an elongated pellet. It burst in the air over the THRUSHes and promptly enveloped them in a foul-smelling fog. Now it was their turn to cough. Soon, they began collapsing where they stood. Illya regarded the results -- all of them were down. He grinned widely. As he began limping to the passenger side of the car, he heard Antonio’s cries again. He withdrew his Special from his coat pocket and aiming carefully, shot a dart into the THRUSH’s arm. The cries stopped. Illya grinned again. Just before getting in the car, he surveyed the scene again -- a lot of sleeping THRUSH agents and a growing crowd of civilians. “ _Bon noir_.” He settled into the seat next to the woman. “Where to, Napoleon?”

“To the nearest canal, of course. _Signora_ , if you please?” She floored the accelerator and the car noisily thudded along.

Despite the handicap of having only three functional tires, they arrived at a canal in a matter of minutes. Stopping was exciting, however; the driver was able to just barely keep them out of the water. They heard sirens in the distance, and they were getting closer. They also heard the sound of an idling engine coming from the canal about forty yards to their right.

“Time to borrow a boat, don’t you think, _tovarisch_?” Napoleon said matter-of-factly. To the woman, who was flushed and wide-eyed, he said in Italian, “Many thanks. Just tell the police you are with the U-N-C-L-E and that we will be happy to pay for any and all damages to the piazza caused by us. Take care.” He smiled graciously and squeezed her shoulder. “Let’s go, Illya,” he said as he exited the automobile.

Before Kuryakin could thank the woman, she grabbed his face between her hands and vigorously kissed both cheeks, then his lips. She spoke very rapidly in Italian, too fast for Illya to understand, and he had to extract himself from her clutches. He left the car as quickly as he could, nodding at her the whole time as she continued to chatter. Once he joined his partner, who was chuckling, Illya asked, “What is _that_ all about?”

Solo managed to say, “She’s thanking you for the most exciting time she’s ever had, it was better than making love, she now wants to race cars for a living, she loves your blue eyes and wants to have your children.”

Illya rolled his eyes. “I am ready to get back on the water.” With that, he trundled off swiftly toward the idling boat. Napoleon noticed that his friend was dragging his injured leg. He looked back over his shoulder at the woman in the car, who was still prattling on. He gave her a small wave with his fingers, then followed Kuryakin.

“OK, Speedy, how are we going to commandeer this boat?” Napoleon almost had to shout to be heard over the sirens. “Frontal attack OK with you?”

Illya nodded grimly. He put his right hand on his weapon, which was currently holstered. Just then, a bright light coming from the boat shone on the U.N.C.L.E. agents. Illya turned his head away. Napoleon shaded his eyes with his left arm -- he had his weapon ready to pull out of its holster, too. He could see a figure behind the light.

The figure yelled at them, “Who are you? What do you want?”

In Italian, Solo replied loudly, “My friend and I could use a ride to the Santa Croce sector. We’ll be happy to pay you. But we must leave _now_.” The sirens sounded as if they were right behind the pair.

“Sorry, I cannot help you. I am waiting for my men. Something has hap-“ The figure gasped when he realized to whom he was speaking. “Solo and…” Luigi Lucchesi fell where he was standing, shot in the neck with a sleep-inducing dart from Kuryakin’s gun.

Solo ran the few remaining yards to the boat. There was plenty of room for them to jump into the boat and the jump would only be from about seven feet up. Illya, just a few steps behind him, quickly caught up. He groaned when he saw what he would have to do.

“No choice, Illya. The cops are at the car.” They could hear their former driver trying to explain to the police what had happened. Several had moved away from the car and were making their way cautiously toward the two U.N.C.L.E. agents.

Illya nodded defeat, and the two jumped off the edge together. Napoleon narrowly missed landing on the lone occupant, tripped, and fell against the wheel. He was knocked breathless for a few moments and pain radiated through his chest. Illya, who didn’t see the edge of a cooler until he had almost landed, caught it with his left foot. He yelped with pain and fell on the deck in a heap. He heard his partner say “Damn!” in a stage whisper before he passed out.

Solo, head spinning from the recent activity and injury, heard a gun fire and felt a puff of wind slice by his head. This brought a needed surge of adrenaline. He took control of the wheel and opened the engine up full throttle. The speedboat thrust ahead. There were several more gunshots and yelling from the police. But that stopped as Napoleon put distance between them and him.

The Canadian-American U.N.C.L.E. agent skillfully wove the speeding boat between the few gondolas on the canals that night. He received numerous curses and obscene gestures from the gondoliers he passed. As far as he could tell, only one had taken a swim due to the boat’s wake.

Solo found the entrance to a canal that dead-ended. He throttled back the engine and maneuvered into the wet equivalent of a cul-de-sac. He then turned the engine off. He wanted the quiet in the hopes his head wouldn’t pound as much and so he could speak with U.N.C.L.E.-Venice. But first, he needed to check on the THRUSHman and on his partner.

He saw that Illya was breathing, so he would see to the other first. He straddled the THRUSHman’s body and slapped his face hard a few times. When this did not draw a response, he checked the inside pocket of the man’s expensive suit. _Nice suit_ , Napoleon thought. He found the label and made a mental note of the tailor’s name and location. Then he lifted the leather billfold out of its berth. “So, you are Luigi Lucchesi. Nice to meet you. Thanks for the boat.” He returned the billfold to its place, and patted Lucchesi on the cheek. Then he turned to Illya.

Kuryakin didn’t stir when Napoleon shook him and patted his face. He checked Illya out from head to toe. He was relieved when he couldn’t find any broken bones or even a swollen ankle or wrist; however, the leg wound had bled through the dressing and the pants leg. Now Napoleon cursed Sophie. He gently moved Illya so he lay on his left side, head propped on his left arm. “Saved my life again, you crazy Russian. Time for me to save yours.” Napoleon sat down on the deck between his partner and Lucchesi.

“Open Channel L, please. Priority scramble. Napoleon Solo for Roberto Marzetti.” The communicator crackled and hummed for a few seconds. Then, “Mr. Solo, how good to hear from you, yes! This is Marzetti, yes. What can we do for you now, yes?”

Solo had to smile at Marzetti’s affectation. “Uh, I could use some directions on how to get to headquarters -- I’ve gotten a bit turned around. And I’ll need a medical team for my partner.” He heard Marzetti draw a quick breath in preparation for asking what was wrong; Napoleon didn’t give him the opportunity. “He’s unconscious and bleeding and will probably need a transfusion.” He touched his own head with caution. “And I might need a few stitches. Oh, and we will have an unexpected guest, so a security contingent should be there as well. Finally, it would be a good idea if you called the police and explained things.”

“Happy to be of service, Mr. Solo, yes. I will give you over to Baretta who knows the canals much better than I, yes. We will have everything ready for you, yes. Ah, here is Baretta.” Napoleon gave thanks that Marzetti had forgotten or neglected to end his last sentence as he usually did and that someone else would give him directions to HQ.

#####

As it was, the U.N.C.L.E. agents and their “guest” were only a few minutes away from where they needed to dock. Napoleon Solo could see quite a large party on land waiting for them, including the Venetian police. There were a number of spectators, some of them quite beefy and dumb-looking. _THRUSH muscle_ , he thought. _At least they won’t try anything here. I hope._

As soon as the speedboat was tied up, someone lowered a litter into it. A man in a short white coat with a red cross on the breast pocket and white trousers carefully descended into the boat. Without speaking, Solo and the medico gently put Kuryakin on the litter and strapped him in. Two more men, one in white and the other in a policeman’s uniform, pulled the litter up by the ropes secured to either end. When the litter was almost over dry ground, Solo heard some sounds emitting from Illya’s throat. “I suggest you get him into headquarters quickly -- he’ll try to get up when he realizes he’s being carried and he will be impossible,” he warned the group in Italian.

The two men kept their hold on the litter and left for headquarters, which was about a hundred yards away. They were followed closely by a gray-haired man in a long white lab coat, a young woman in a nurse’s uniform, and a man in a suit. The medico clambered out of the boat and ran to catch up with the medical team. Solo scanned the crowd of onlookers; no one made any threatening gestures or moves toward the group.

Solo agilely bounded up to the pavement and straightened his waist-length jacket and delicately combed his hair with his fingers. Then he ordered the remaining men to get Lucchesi to headquarters. He started to trot after the medical team but slowed when he saw a very tall, rail-thin man, hands clasped together and moving them around like a boxer who has just been announced before a fight, rapidly approaching. _This has got to be the yes man_.

When nine or ten feet still separated them, the tall, thin man extended his extraordinarily long right arm. He waited to speak until he had Napoleon’s right arm ensconced in both of his. Then he began pumping. “Mr. Solo, so good to see you, yes. I am Marzetti, but please to call me Roberto, yes? Please forgive me not being here, there, to meet you, yes? Mr. Waverly and I were speaking very much, yes. Please for you and Mr. Kuryakin to speak with him as soon as possible, yes?”

Solo wondered if Marzetti used so many _yes_ es when he spoke Italian. “Well, it’s good to finally meet you, uh, Roberto. Please call me Napoleon.” He politely dislodged his hand from Marzetti’s death grip. He resumed walking toward headquarters. “Now, if you don’t mind, I want to see how my partner is faring.” He increased his speed to a run and arrived without any bullets or sleep darts or gases of any sort coming his way.

U.N.C.L.E.-Venice couldn’t really be called a headquarters. It was one of the few offices not fronted by a cleaning or other business likely to have a lot of traffic. It shared a large building with an insurance company, which paid rent to U.N.C.L.E.. The staff was mostly scientific and technical types with a few Section 3 people and several security teams for ‘round-the-clock protection. Marzetti had just transferred in from an even smaller office to take over as administrator of the station. In addition to his talents as a paper-pusher, Marzetti was also a brilliant and productive biochemist.

The receptionist -- a brunette with light brown eyes and an engaging smile - manning the entrance verified Solo’s identity and clipped a badge to his jacket. She directed him to the infirmary without Solo asking her. Because of the largely research and development focus of U.N.C.L.E.-Venice, the infirmary was small, with first aid supplies, equipment, and a stainless steel table. The medical team was strictly on-call local healthcare professionals.

Solo looked into the infirmary through the small window in the door. He was gratified to see Illya conscious and obviously arguing in fractured Italian with the four other people in the room, two of whom were struggling to keep him on the table. _Jeez, Illya is really peeved -- no, pissed._ Solo decided he better save the medical team from his irate and stubborn partner. Napoleon put on his best commanding demeanor and entered the room.

“Good evening. Does everyone here speak English?” All four of the medical team nodded in unison. Kuryakin just glared.

“Excellent. My partner here has a leg wound caused by a knife. He has lost a fair amount of blood and probably needs a transfusion. He _will_ allow you to do all that is necessary.” In his peripheral vision, Solo saw Illya’s glare increase. “I myself might need stitches,” he said, pointing to his head. “But first, what happened to the man in the suit and the policeman?”

The man in the long white lab coat cleared his throat powerfully and gave their blond patient a scolding look. “I am Doctor Cellucci,” he said in flawless, Boston-accented English. Your _partner_ attacked the man in the suit -- he is a security person, I believe -- and almost knocked him out! The policeman took him to another room to put ice to his face.”

Solo shook his head knowingly. “Ah, yes, well, I’ll speak with them. In the meantime, Mr. Kuryakin will do whatever you ask.” Napoleon looked directly at his partner. “Correct?”

Illya ducked his head slightly and reluctantly nodded agreement. Everyone could see his muscles relax. The two orderlies slowly backed away; they seemed relieved that they wouldn’t end up like the security guard.

Solo turned on his heel and left the room. He fought back a wave of dizziness and chose to ignore his 7.8-on-the-Richter-scale headache. He headed back to the reception area, looking forward to seeing the woman stationed there but not looking forward to dealing with the police and the irritating Marzetti.

Just as the CEA was about to arrive at reception, a sturdily built man in his mid-twenties plowed into him. Solo reared back, left hand up to keep him at bay, right hand on the butt of his Special. The man was wet from chest down. Solo, with knitted eyebrows, said in English, “Slow down. Who are you? What’s the problem?”

The young man was panting and couldn’t quite speak. Solo saw that he carried Illya’s cane. “Oh, good, you’ve found my partner’s cane. Thank you.” As he reached for it, the young man roughly thrust it into his approaching hand. Solo gave him a questioning look.

“Good-a for you to have it. This is-a not usual U.N.C.L.E. cane.” The young man was somewhat unnerved and began gesturing wildly. “I am security, name-a Martini. I-a know U.N.C.L.E. canes, this-a is-a not U.N.C.L.E. cane. Cane not to have-a explode, yes?” Solo cringed slightly at Martini’s use of _that_ word. “I pick up in boat, something turn, BOOM! Hole in bottom of boat, it sink!”

Solo restrained laughing. He patted Martini on the shoulder. “I apologize. My partner likes to make…little improvements, uh, adjustments. I’ll see that he gets this.” He looked down at the growing puddle at Martini’s feet. “Why don’t you get into some dry clothes?”

Martini had calmed down a bit. He rapidly jerked his head in shallow nods and wandered deeper into headquarters. Solo held the cane with the utmost care and respect. He knew all too well about the Russian’s “little improvements.” Now to deal with Marzetti, the Venetian police, and, soon, Alexander Waverly.

#####

Illya Kuryakin had to admit that Napoleon was correct; he did need blood transfusions. Very soon after Solo had left the small infirmary, a sample of Illya’s blood was on the way to a nearby laboratory for typing and cross-matching.

Dr. Cellucci, using his most formal manner, asked Illya to undress to his shorts. The agent begrudgingly complied. The nurse drew close to give him a thin hospital gown to wear. As she helped him into it, she noticed a tapestry of scars -- more scars than she had ever seen on one person. When she finished, she quickly left Illya’s side, but not before he noticed her eyes welling up with tears.

“So, Mr. Kuryakin, I will have a look at your wound now.” Dr. Cellucci snipped the ragged bandage off Illya’s leg. After a cursory inspection, he instructed the nurse to clean the wound. She was thorough and gentle. The physician inspected the injury more closely this time, aided by a probe and a light held by one of the orderlies. The probing was quite painful, but Illya kept still and somehow avoided screaming and throttling the doctor.

“I have good news and bad news,” Dr. Cellucci said in a less formal attitude. “The bad news is, you will have a significant scar there. The good news is, there are no signs of infection and I may be able to reduce that scar by placing a few loose sutures, which should also cut down on bleeding. Though the best thing is rest, I understand that is not an option.” His voice went up at the end of the sentence, as if asking a question.

Illya, masking his feelings as usual, answered, “That is correct. My partner and I still have very important work to do. I can rest later.”

“Mr. Kuryakin, a personal question, if I may.” Illya continued to look at the doctor without changing his expression or speaking. This made Cellucci uncomfortable, but he overcame it. “Does your lineage include Norsemen? From my observations of your multiple scars, my meager knowledge of U.N.C.L.E., and my analysis of your comportment, I should say you are a modern-day berserker.”

The Russian favored Cellucci with one of his withering stares. All activity in the room, including the medicos’ breathing, abruptly halted for a few moments. Finally, Cellucci stammered, “Welllll, we best get on with our work, yes, get on with our work here. Nurse, please start an intravenous line in our patient here, yes, our patient. I will set up for the sutures.” As the doctor reached into his medical bag, he muttered very quietly to himself, “Never saw anything like him at Harvard.”

#####

Napoleon Solo, having successfully soothed the local constabulary, confirmed the escape plan with Marzetti, and calmed the ruffled feathers of the security guard his partner tried to bludgeon, searched for food and drink. Once he and Illya had eaten, they would call Waverly.

U.N.C.L.E.-Venice had a small kitchen with all the amenities, including fully stocked cupboards and refrigerator. Solo scrambled half a dozen eggs and generously buttered several slices of toasted Italian bread. He split the food between two plates, found the silverware, and grabbed an opened bottle of Chianti. It was time to get Illya to eat.

The CEA arrived in the infirmary to find Kuryakin dozing. An almost-empty bottle of blood dripped steadily through tubing running into an arm. The nurse was preparing another bottle to go up. The orderly was in a corner, also dozing.

“How’s he doing?” Napoleon spoke softly to the nurse.

Before she could respond, Illya piped up, “I am fine.” He twitched his nose. “Do I smell eggs?” He opened his eyes and saw Napoleon balancing two plates on one arm and holding a wine bottle in the other. He could see the business end of a fork sticking out of his partner’s pants pocket.

“Thought you might like a light supper.”

“ _Light_ supper?” Illya scolded him. “This is just the appetizer.” Illya turned over to face Napoleon, propping himself on an elbow, and took the closest plate. Then he nabbed the fork from Solo’s pocket. He dove into the food. “These eggs don’t have enough salt and pepper. Could have used some paprika, too,” he mumbled as he shoveled the food into his mouth.

Solo was silently relieved that he would not have to order Kuryakin to eat. “It’s good to see you feeling better.” He leaned against the table. He offered Illya, who had already finished the eggs and was deep into the first piece of toast, the wine.

“Well, were are the glasses?”

“I couldn’t carry anything more. Just drink out of the bottle. It’s not like we haven’t done that before.”

“Yes, I suppose so. And the alcohol should kill your germs.” Solo raised his hand as if to slap him and tossed him a mock threatening glance. Illya smiled slightly, pulled the cork out, and took a long drink. Handing it back to Napoleon, he asked, “Why don’t you ever have vodka? Or at least, bitters.”

“You better take what I can get, and like it. But seriously, Illya,” Solo said as he watched the nurse exchange the empty bottle for a full one, “we shouldn’t have any more to eat than this for right now. And go easy on the wine, too. First, we talk with Mr. Waverly. Second, you get the code key and we undergo this supplemental programming. Third, we leave Venice undetected.” Solo took a gulp of the wine.

“And you have worked out how we are to leave undetected?”

“Actually, Marzetti helped some, too. If he weren’t such a good scientist and administrator, he might make it in the spy business.” Solo looked around the room again. “Where’s our doctor? You didn’t hurt him, too, did you?”

Kuryakin rolled his eyes. “Of course not. He had to take a telephone call from the hospital. One of his regular patients has a baby due.” He let his eyes stray to his partner’s head. “Have Nurse Bianchi take a look at that. My life is depending on you.”

Napoleon nodded agreement. He hurriedly finished his meal and washed it down with a generous swallow of Chianti. “Uh, nurse, could you help me, please?” he asked in his most seductively gentile way. Illya rolled his eyes again and helped himself to one last drink of wine.

#####

On a priority-scrambled Channel D, Napoleon Solo brought his superior up-to-date on their progress and their plans.

Alexander Waverly was not pleased. “Your assignment is a relatively simple one, Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin. And I fail to see why it has taken you almost 48 hours to travel from Rome to Venice. Perhaps you two are overdue for a refresher course at the, um, Survival School.” The partners exchanged alarmed glances, as if to say, _Could he be serious?_

“But that is another matter,” the Englishman continued. “Your plan of action appears to be quite reasonable. I will, uh, take care of the necessary arrangements to get you safely into headquarters upon your return to New York. Good evening, gentlemen.” Waverly snapped off his communicator at the console before him before he heard their sign-off. He glanced at the clock that gave him the time in California. The satellite was about to be launched. He sat quietly in his office, contemplating the incredible advantage U.N.C.L.E. would have in battling THRUSH if the latter’s Central headquarters’ location could always be known. His reverie was interrupted by another priority call coming from his counterpart in Europe. “Yes, Harry, what is it?”

#####

Luigi Lucchesi had finally awakened with a tremendous headache from his induced nap. Though he didn’t recognize his surroundings, he deduced he was in the U.N.C.L.E.-Venice office. There were several non-descript men in non-descript suits in the room with him. Though there were several chairs, none of them were in use. Lucchesi was stretched out on a sofa. He watched as one of the men picked up the receiver of a wall telephone and spoke softly into it. He closed his eyes and waited for the interrogation to begin.

He didn’t have to wait long. The man he knew to be Napoleon Solo, U.N.C.L.E.’s number 1 agent in its operations and enforcement section, stalked in, carrying a cane. His body language made it apparent he was someone to be reckoned with, that he was in charge here. Lucchesi hoped his shuddering did not show.

“ _Signore_ Lucchesi, I am not here to mince words or finesse information out of you. I want truthful answers and I want them now. Don’t make me or any of these men hurt you.” Napoleon hoped this tactic would work. Intelligence on this man indicated that he was a scientist himself, and assigned simply to watch and report, with a small cadre of THRUSHes, the happenings in and around U.N.C.L.E.-Venice. He was counting on Lucchesi not having ambitions of rising in THRUSH’s hierarchy.

The THRUSHman simply cowered and whimpered.

“Listen here, Lucchesi, I don’t have much patience right now. You see, my partner was hurt not too long ago. Well, I lose my temper and my control when my partner is hurt. Too bad the person that injured him can’t confirm it, if you know what I mean.” Solo paused; still no verbal response from the captive.

“Do you see this cane, my feathered friend? It is one of U.N.C.L.E.’s most versatile weapons. I know how it works, but not this one, because my partner made some adjustments but neglected to tell me about them. So I don’t know what will happen! I certainly didn’t expect it to sink your beautiful boat in only a few seconds.” Solo pointed the cane at Lucchesi’s chest. “If I were to press here, ordinarily I would expect a sleeping dart to shoot out. But my partner is so…creative. And one might say diabolical as well. Why don’t we see what he actually loaded in this compartment?” Napoleon’s trigger finger began to move slowly.

Lucchesi screamed, putting his hands up to cover his face -- living, preferably without any pain, had become more important to him than a promotion to Central. Solo and the U.N.C.L.E. guards watched as a dark spot appeared on the crotch of the THRUSHman’s pants and spread. “NO-NO-NO! I will tell you what you want to know! Please don’t fire that thing at me! I am a man of science, not a killer!” He reverted to whimpering again.

The CEA lowered the cane. “Speak.”

With his hands in praying position, Lucchesi told in break-neck Italian of THRUSH’s suspicion that U.N.C.L.E. was up to something major, of orders to follow them to Venice and then to capture them once they tried to leave, of any attack on them before reaching the Venice office was not part of their orders. He cried for a few seconds, then developed hiccups. Between hiccups, he begged for amnesty.

Solo turned to one of the guards. “Lock him up _securely_. He is not to leave here until I, Kuryakin, or U.N.C.L.E.-New York give the order.” _Not that he’ll_ need _to leave the room for a while._ He left without another look at the prisoner. Solo was pissed -- all that crying and screaming had aggravated his headache. The last thing he heard as he left was Lucchesi’s plea: “What about my amnes-“

#####

Vittorio Arzanotti had managed to escape being gassed by Kuryakin -- his short legs kept him well behind the THRUSH underlings who had fallen victim. He had also avoided being picked up by the police. After rounding up most of the THRUSHes who had been prowling the city, he had called for a meeting near the U.N.C.L.E. office. Arzanotti had given them an ultimatum: capture the U.N.C.L.E. agents alive or die trying or if unsuccessful.

Arzanotti had deployed the huge THRUSH team in such a way that a flea would have a hard time passing without being detected. He had patted his huge gut several times -- a self-congratulatory mannerism. _I capture these two notorious U.N.C.L.E. agents, without that incompetent boob Lucchesi around to share credit, and I will be the next member of Central!_ Then he had searched for and found a bench to sit on while he waited for the U.N.C.L.E. agents to leave their hole.

Several hours had gone by since the U.N.C.L.E. agents had been seen and chased at the Piazza San Marco. Arzanotti was getting very hungry, and he longed for something or someone to hit. But he forgot all about his needs when he saw Antonio approach him, without any sign of a limp. In his excitement, he swung his dangling legs even faster. He called out for his favorite male thug.

The hulking, swarthy man replied, “I am not Tonio, I am Angelo, his baby brother.” Arzanotti’s tiny face scrunched up. “I am THRUSH here in Venice. I was just at the hospital with him. He may never walk right again.” He paused, then continued quietly, speaking through his teeth. “I will slowly torture the bastard who did this to him, and then I will kill him. I swear this vendetta.” Angelo slammed his right fist into his chest just over his heart.

Arzanotti was thrilled. Angelo seemed to be a much more violent man than his brother. _Perhaps he will transfer to my command! Especially since Antonio is now completely worthless to me._ The Rome satrap said almost gleefully, “Come here and sit by me, young man. I am sure you will be able to carry out your vendetta, but I must have him first. But until we capture him, tell me something about yourself and what your plans are for the future.”

#####

U.N.C.L.E.’s chief enforcement agent ran through the escape plan for the third time with those involved in it. Illya Kuryakin had sat in for the initial run-through, then left for his programming and learning of the code key for the Guiding Star. Solo was nervous -- these people weren’t agents, they were scientists, and technicians, and security guards! He took a deep breath to settle his nerves. “Any questions?” There were none, so he dismissed them after instructions to rest but ready to go at a moment’s notice.

He went to wait outside the small room where Kuryakin and his scientific colleague were conducting business. He tested the door handle -- still locked. He sat down on a love seat in the hallway, crossed his legs at the knee, and closed his eyes. _Maybe I can follow my own orders._

#####

Illya Kuryakin grinned widely at the tall, chubby Frenchman sitting across from him in the programming room. “This code is inspired, Jean-Paul!” the Russian exclaimed in French. “It is both simple and complex. I am impressed!”

Jean-Paul Thibeau blushed deeply. To be complimented by Kuryakin at all was significant, but this -- well, this was mind-blowing, to borrow a phrase used by young people nowadays. “ _Mmmm-erci_ ,” he stuttered. Quickly regaining his composure, he continued. “Now, Illya, it is of the utmost importance you memorize everything exactly, or the code will not work when it is programmed into the directional computer. But I tell you something you already know. Please, forgive me, my friend.”

Illya waved his apology off. “Give me a few minutes. Then test me. If I have it, then you will program me.” He remembered without pleasure what lay before him. _It is only for a short time_ , he tried to reassure himself. Then he closed his eyes and quickly cleared his mind and shut out distractions. Opening his eyes, he began to study the code key, muttering it aloud.

#####

Napoleon Solo slept. He was dreaming of Lisa Rogers and Salome Smythe. Things were just getting interesting when he felt someone shaking him by the arm. He was awake instantly, but not happily so.

“Napoleon,” said Jean-Paul, “it iz your turn for zee special programming. Please, follow me.”

Solo hopped out of the love seat and regretted it. His head swam, his headache came back, his right side throbbed. He took a moment to recover. During this time, he watched his partner leave the room. Illya was pale and drawn again, plus now he looked very tired. He was leaning heavily on his cane once again. Solo shot an accusatory look at Thibeau.

Jean-Paul smiled weakly. “Please, do not be concerned. Zis process is, uh, how you say, arduous for those who are not tiptop condition. Dr. Kuryakin will recover soon.”

Thibeau’s use of Illya’s title threw Solo for a brief moment. Recovering quickly, he strode rapidly to Illya’s side. “What the hell is this programming, Illya? You never looked like this after one of those longer sessions.”

“But I was never in this shape, either. Now go with Jean-Paul. We are on an assignment and we are tardy in completing it.” Illya glared at his friend.

“All right, already. I’m going.” Solo faced Jean-Paul. “Let’s go, my good man,” he said jovially as he rubbed his palms together a few times.

Illya slowly limped to the love seat recently vacated by his partner. He sat down on one side so his left leg could occupy the other side. He fell asleep before he could rest his head against the wall.

#####

The sound of a door opening roused the blond agent from his sleep. For the first time in several days, he did not reach for his gun -- he remembered he was in U.N.C.L.E. offices and felt as safe as anyone could. He blinked several times to clear the fuzziness from his vision ( _This pain medication impairs my senses to unacceptable levels!_ ) and was moderately alarmed to see the CEA with a greenish tint to his complexion and with a noticeable-only-to-his-partner stagger to his walk. He didn’t change his expression nor did he say anything to Napoleon Solo.

“ _You_ must have had _something_ to do with developing that machine and the special programming that goes along with it, you diabolical Russian,” Solo said, half-teasingly and half-sincerely. “That was…an experience.”

Kuryakin’s face continued to hold the same unreadable expression. “I believe any complaints or suggestions should be directed to U.N.C.L.E.’s psychiatrists and psychologists. Now, let’s get home so I can get some decent sleep.” Illya stood up with little difficulty. “Jean-Paul, it was a pleasure seeing you again. I am looking forward to reading your paper on the Allied code talkers.” The two men cheek-kissed several times before embracing. Solo chose just to nod his farewell to the man who had just so recently tortured -- _no, programmed_ , he corrected himself -- him. Jean-Paul, in return, gave Solo a closed-mouth smile good-bye.

As the two enforcement agents walked away from Thibeau, Napoleon quietly said, “I take you know our man back there.”

“Yes, for over twenty years.”

“That would mean you met during the…But you were kids, one Russian, one French…”

Illya limped a few steps before responding. “I got around a lot.” Again, without detectable emotion.

Napoleon mouthed an “Oh!” and raised an eyebrow. He did not press his friend for more information.

#####

As Solo and Kuryakin were changing into their outfits for the escape from Venice, the latter noticed a number of new bruises on his partner. The one on Solo’s right chest was particularly worrisome; not only was it deeply discolored, but it was definitely swollen.

“Napoleon, did you have the nurse take a look at that?” Illya asked his partner as he pointed to the injury.

“This is minor, Illya, nothing broken. Besides, I had more pressing matters to attend to. As soon as we’re finished here, we’ll confer with Marzetti one last time and get this show on the road.”

The door to the room opened just then. As if beckoned, Marzetti stood in the doorway. “Oh, good to find you here, yes.” This time he punctuated his words with karate chop-type gestures. “I see you will be ready to go soon, yes. My people and your transportations are ready, yes. The _policia_ will stay in background, so not involved as you say, yes. It is great honor to have assisted you, yes, yes. Baretta will see you to your, um, exit from here, yes.” Then he clapped his hands like a child receiving a much-desired present.

“Thank you, Roberto, for everything. You and your staff have been exemplary,” said Napoleon. Illya nodded his agreement.

Marzetti grinned a canary-eating-cat grin, bowed deeply, and backed out of the room, closing the door. The U.N.C.L.E. agents were alone again.

“Odd fellow. Is he an example of what one would call a ‘yes-man’?” asked Kuryakin.

“Frankly, I don’t know _what_ he’s an example of.”

Illya shrugged and continued the struggle of getting dressed. He was pleased in a perverse way to see Solo struggle, too.

#####

Solo and Kuryakin carefully studied the maps supplied to them by Baretta. Illya finished first and settled back against the high back of the bench they shared. “Hurry up, Napoleon. I want to get on that aeroplane and sleep. It is past my bedtime.” When the CEA did not respond, Kuryakin knew the man was feeling the fatigue as well.

After several more minutes, Solo finally folded the maps as best he could. “Let’s go. I’ll tell Marzetti we’re ready. Why don’t you wake up Baretta?” He pointed at the semi-reclining man on the bench opposite them.

“All right, but I would rather go to an espresso bar.” Illya used his cane to gently nudge the large man awake.

Solo used the intercom to communicate with Marzetti. “Roberto, it’s Napoleon. We’re ready here. Set the plan in action in…” - he checked his watch -- “two minutes. Many thanks.”

“Oh my, yes, Napoleon, yes,” came Marzetti’s excited voice. “Such excitement, yes. Godspeed, yes. Please notify us when you arrive in New York, yes?”

“Of course, Roberto.” As he clicked the intercom off, Solo took a deep breath to keep him from laughing. He was determined not to show any disrespect for Marzetti in front of one of his men. He saw Illya was facing the same problem. “OK, Baretta, let’s go.”

Baretta grunted and helped the agents from New York finish dressing.

#####

Elena and Angelo prowled the area around U.N.C.L.E.-Venice. They kept moving just to keep from falling asleep. Even though it was feasible for everyone to be paired up with another and alternate keeping watch and sleeping, Arzanotti adamantly refused to consider that option. Now it was 3 a.m. and the only activity was from THRUSH people.

Hearing a door open in the café next door to the U.N.C.L.E. office sent the two THRUSHes twirling around to face it. They watched as an old man of medium build and a somewhat smaller old woman with a limp leave the building. Elena was instantly alert, feeling the adrenaline pump. She whispered excitedly to her companion, “It has to be them! Call Arzanotti now!” She withdrew a long-barreled pistol from her large shoulder bag and started walking toward the couple.

Just as Angelo started to key the radio, he heard several other people reporting in. “We have them at the rear of the building!” “…coming out a door on the east side…” “…two people climbing down from the roof …” Then, he heard Arzanotti, overriding everyone, screech, “Decoys! You idiots! Decoys! Get every single one and bring them all to me for questioning! Hurry, you fools!”

The sound of Arzanotti’s command traveled far in the night air. This spurred every group of two to run, with THRUSH agents in close pursuit. Shots were fired, but none met flesh.

Arzanotti was wild with anticipation. He paced, almost hopping, as he listened to the various hunts taking place. Then abruptly he stopped. It had dawned on him that every pair were decoys, that Solo and Kuryakin were leaving by other means. Immediately he keyed his radio and stamped his foot. “Divers! Into the water! The U.N.C.L.E. men are escaping that way! There must be an exit by water! Hurry, or I will have your heads!” _That imbecile Lucchesi must have known about such an escape route. But I would have known exactly where had that fool not allowed himself to be captured! If he costs me that promotion, I’ll…_ Arzanotti’s thoughts halted as he heard several splashes. Then he saw Angelo and Elena approach with an elderly-appearing couple who struggled against the handcuffs they now wore.

“They are not Solo and Kuryakin. Now kill them and come with me,” the Rome satrap commanded.

Elena and Angelo looked at each other dispassionately, then at their captives. They raised their guns and fired simultaneously, Elena at the man, Angelo at the woman. The decoys flew back several feet from the power of the gunshots before they hit ground. Then they lay unmoving.

The two THRUSHes calmly followed Arzanotti who was running as fast as his stubby legs could carry him to a waiting boat.

#####

Just as Arzanotti began howling about decoys, Napoleon Solo opened the underwater hatch to the canal not too far beyond the back entrance of U.N.C.L.E.-Venice. The lighted chamber they were in had been filled with clear, fresh water, but now it was turning dark as the canal water moved in. Solo swam out first. Once well-clear of the threshold, he waited for his partner.

The Russian agent had already turned on the heavy-duty underwater torch that was strapped atop the propulsion unit. He spotted Solo easily. Then, releasing the unit, he turned back to close the hatch. He retrieved the unit and gave Solo the OK gesture. Illya saw Solo nod, turn, and then flick on his torch. Kuryakin made sure once again that his cane was secured. It was fastened to his right leg above the knee.

The U.N.C.L.E. agents swam a few yards deeper into the canal. Solo stopped, and quickly Illya pulled up beside him. Illya’s narrowed eyes, not too hard to see behind the scuba mask, and his rapid rate of breathing told Napoleon that swimming was a painful chore for his partner. Solo decided that they would use the propulsion units sooner than planned. He mimicked turning an ignition key. Illya nodded. Both units roared to life. Kuryakin took the lead.

The sound of the propulsion units concealed the splashes of the THRUSH agents. Four divers jumped in only a few yards behind Solo and Kuryakin. One of them spotted the lights slowly moving away from them. Excited, he pounded the arm of the leader of this particular group. He turned on his headlamp and pointed toward the receding lights of the U.N.C.L.E. agents. The leader gave him the surface signal. Flicking on his headlamp, he waved for the other two to follow him.

The THRUSH who spotted Solo and Kuryakin rapidly broke surface. He spat out his mouthpiece and yanked off his mask. “Menotti! Menotti!” he called.

Menotti, a bald, one-legged man with very poor dentition, came to the side of the canal. “What is it?” An Asian woman soon joined him.

The diver sputtered some rank water out of his mouth. “Radio Arzanotti. Tell him we have found the U.N.C.L.E. men in this canal, headed, uh, east. Tell him to hurry!” He quickly readied himself to dive again. He waved at the two on shore, then plunged into the canal again.

Menotti passed the message to Arzanotti, who was ecstatic. He could hear the satrap shouting orders to the driver of his and other THRUSH boats in the vicinity. Showing his green and black teeth, he said, “So, 43, you may very well get to work your wonders with these men quite soon.”

She rubbed and kissed Menotti’s bald pate. He fell in love with her again. When she laughed maniacally from deep within her soul, he almost fainted from his intense desire of her.

#####

Just as Solo was wondering if his decision to go to propulsion units early was a good one, his right ankle was locked in a vise-like grip. He cursed himself for not noticing the weak dots of light coming up behind him in the murky water. As he felt a second hard grip on his calf. he knew the enemy was climbing up his leg. He released his own grip on the propulsion unit. He pulled out the knife in the scabbard on his left forearm and reached around to his right, trying to slash at the hands cutting off the circulation in his leg. Finally he felt the knife meet something hard and the hand on his calf weakened considerably, but its hold, as well as the one on his ankle, maintained. He watched helplessly as two divers passed him and his tenacious assailant. He had a sense of relief when he saw they had no weapons drawn. Illya had a chance.

Kuryakin, who had perceived a change in the direction of the light from Solo’s torch, had turned around to see his partner’s struggle. Illya dropped his own prop unit but only after he redirected it toward Solo. He quickly removed a small harpoon and a flare from his weight belt. He fired the harpoon at the closer of the two swimmers, then without waiting to see if it hit target, he broke the seal on the flare and aimed it at the second diver.

The light exploded in the dark water. Kuryakin, anticipating this, had shut his eyes tightly. Just as he was opening them, he saw the first swimmer almost upon him. Without enough time to counterattack, he tried to swim backwards. The diver caught him anyway, tearing out Kuryakin’s mouthpiece and then trying for the mask. Fortunately, Illya had just inhaled. Before the THRUSH diver’s hand closed completely around his mask, Illya glimpsed the harpoon lodged in the man’s shoulder. His arm was barely long enough to grab it. He held on to it as tightly as he could and manipulated it with all his might. His attacker started to slacken his hold on the mask. Illya continued to twist and turn the shaft. After what seemed like hours, the diver backed off. Illya, lungs cramping for air, shoved his mouthpiece back in his mouth and took several long, ragged breaths. He readjusted his facemask. Seeing Solo grappling with a man big enough to challenge King Kong and win, Kuryakin headed for his partner.

Napoleon was now trying to stab the huge man. He had slashed the THRUSHman deeply several times, but his handhold on Solo only seemed to weaken temporarily. Once, when Solo attempted to get his own harpoon, the giant almost took hold of Solo’s belt. The U.N.C.L.E. agent immediately resigned himself to using the knife and simply wearing the aggressor down. He hoped Illya was faring better.

Solo was focussing so intensely on his fight with the giant that he didn’t notice Illya approach them, so he was startled to see the Russian’s familiar hand tug the harpoon out. The surprise almost cost Napoleon a blow to the family jewels, but he managed to twist in such a way that the giant’s fist grazed his upper thigh. Napoleon was ready to stab the hand that was slow to pull back, but knowing what he might actually puncture should he miss, he elected not to stab at anything just yet.

Then, in the fading light of the flare, there was a shocked look on the giant’s face as his meaty hand moved in slow motion to his throat. The fight had left the huge man. Solo could just make out the harpoon sticking out of it. _Illya comes through again!_ He turned to find his partner panting. In the next instant, Solo wondered what the dark shadow was moving in behind Illya. Without hesitation, he waved Illya away and lunged as best he could, knife ready, toward the shadow. Solo’s outreached hand passed his partner and he was rewarded with the feel of the knife cutting through a wet suit then into more pliant flesh. Solo withdrew the weapon. The shadow sank.

The U.N.C.L.E. agents simply looked at each other, expressionless, while they caught their breath and recovered from the fighting and the death. Kuryakin fought the cold that always seemed to shroud his soul after he killed someone; it didn’t matter that the killing was in self-defense or in defense of his partner or someone else. Solo felt the all-too-familiar oppressive numbness creep over him.

After a minute, Solo indicated they should be on their way. Though the light from the flare was almost gone, the torches remained on. Illya placed a hand on Solo’s arm, then held up three fingers. _Yes, the third man -- where is he?_

At just that moment, the U.N.C.L.E. agents found out. The third diver, the one Kuryakin shot the flare at, had miraculously avoided injury, but the flare had burned several holes in the hose from his tank to his mouthpiece. He had backed away from the fray to repair the damage. Then he witnessed the deaths of his comrades. Incensed, he had found a lead pipe on the floor of the canal and had stealthily approached the murderers.

He rammed the pipe into the Russian’s left thigh. Kuryakin writhed in pain; he screamed in his throat so loudly that Solo could hear it clearly.

The third swimmer came at Solo, intending to ram him in the gut with the pipe. Solo sidestepped but the pipe caught him with a glancing blow to his right side. The pain brought tears to his eyes, but he blinked them away. The diver was now partially past him as he could not stop the momentum. Solo took advantage of this and ripped off the diver’s mask, then sliced the tubing where it met the tank.

The diver released the pipe and, in a panic, headed for the surface.

Napoleon slowly swam the few feet separately him from Kuryakin. His side ached terribly, and every breath, no matter how small, added to the pain exponentially. He could see, however, that Illya’s agony easily matched, if not exceeded, his. Illya was clutching his leg and breathing unevenly. Solo felt helpless again. There was nothing he could do right now to ease his or his friend’s pain.

The CEA checked his tank’s gauge. This underwater battle had not only cost them enormous amounts of energy, but a significant supply of their oxygen as well. With slow, deliberate movement, he picked up the closest prop unit and floated it toward Illya. The Russian, who had finally controlled his breathing, caught it. After consulting his waterproof compass, he proceeded in the proper direction. Napoleon was right behind him.

The fourth diver, who had been lurking in the darkness just outside the ring of lighted water, followed the pair at a safe distance.

The U.N.C.L.E. agents’ progress was slower than expected. Neither had the energy to kick to supplement the prop units’ power, though both men knew that there were bound to be more divers coming after them.

Eventually they entered a wider section of the canal. Solo kicked enough to bring him alongside Kuryakin. The CEA gave him a _how-are-you-doing_ look. Illya responded with a nod.

Then, without warning, they felt a strange movement of the water. Adrenaline pumping once more, they scanned their environment. Kuryakin was first to see the dark fishing net closing around them. He signaled his partner to race forward in hopes of avoiding capture. They started kicking furiously, angling to get closer to the surface without breaching it. But with less than two feet to go, the leading edge of the net rose above the surface.

Both agents discarded their propulsion units. Solo went for his knife and began cutting the thick braids of hemp rapidly encasing them. Kuryakin drew his small but sharp dagger from its scabbard at his waist and joined his partner. But just as they cut through one or two pieces of rope, the net rose higher and they tumbled toward its bottom. Too quickly, Solo and Kuryakin found themselves atop their prop units and rising out of the water.

Solo stopped cutting when he saw the large group of heavily armed THRUSHies on two boats. He slid the knife back in its case with a great show of deliberation. He removed his mouthpiece and set his mask on top of his head. He tapped Illya, who was still sawing vigorously, on the arm. “Uh, save your strength. I think we’re catch of the day.” He wagged his index finger at the enemy.

Illya ceased cutting as well. He surveyed the crowd on the two boats. Realizing, as Napoleon had, that any chance of escape at that moment was not an option, he let the mouthpiece fall from his mouth. “Oh.” He dropped the knife into the canal. _I am not going to let_ these _people have my dagger._

As they were being brought on board, Solo whispered, “Any ideas?”

“No, not yet.”

“Me, either. But I will be glad to get this torch out of my backside.”

Before they could get off the propulsion units and onto the deck, Solo was relieved of his knife and Kuryakin his cane. They were permitted to sit on the deck to remove their caps and flippers. Soon they were relieved of everything else but their wet suits. Solo smoothed his henna-tinted hair back into place. Illya ignored his coiffure -- he was more concerned about just standing.

Off to their right, the crowd parted to allow a short, bandy-legged man to pass. He stopped mere inches in front of the U.N.C.L.E. agents. “So, you are Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin,” the odd-looking man said in perfect English. Gloating, he continued, “You call yourselves U.N.C.L.E.’s best? Oh, I think not. You have been caught by the great Vittorio Arzanotti! And you _will_ tell us why Alexander Waverly has sent an injured agent to Venice rather than straight back to New York.” He snorted a few times through his prominent nose. “What do you have to say to _that_ , my incompetent U.N.C.L.E. men? Hummm?"

Kuryakin, thinking about what Napoleon had said just moments after their capture, answered, “ _Bon appetit_?” with a mixture of innocence and sarcasm. Solo grimaced, sure that this would get Illya in trouble.

Arzanotti stared uncomprehendingly for several seconds at the blond man before him. Then he rocked back on his heels, turned purple, and stomped on the deck. He made a fist and promptly jabbed Kuryakin’s injured thigh.

Kuryakin, caught off guard, let out a distressed cry and would have hit the deck had Napoleon not caught him. “Watch it there, _tovarisch_. I think we may need to be careful in what we say around this…fellow,” Napoleon said quietly. Illya fought to stay conscious.

Arzanotti bellowed, “ _Tovarisch_? What is this ‘ _tovarisch_ ’? Some kind of code?”

_Oh shit, does he know we have the code?_ As politely as he could muster, Napoleon said, “It means, uh, ‘friend’ in Russian.”

“How could a Russian possibly be anyone’s friend? And you, an American in the company of such a…a… _animal_?” Arzanotti was now a deep purple, bordering on black.

“Well, he is house-trained.” Solo could feel Illya readying a comeback, but flashed him a warning look not to say anything. Illya returned that look with one that let Solo know payback would be hell.

Arzanotti was silent for several heartbeats before he began laughing heartily. The U.N.C.L.E. agents noticed that no one joined in.

The THRUSH satrap quieted down. “I see, Solo, that you have a quick wit, a sense of humor. But you are still a filthy U.N.C.L.E. agent, with an even filthier _friend_ ,” he said, eyeing Kuryakin contemptuously. The troll-man waved his arms and in Italian said, “Into the hold with them, then cast off. NOW, you fools!” Arzanotti scurried like a ship’s rat toward the bridge. Four armed guards hustled Napoleon and Illya, still supported by his partner, into the bowels of the fishing boat.

#####

Kuryakin slowly clawed his way to consciousness. He was first aware of someone saying his name repeatedly, then of the monstrous headache and throbbing leg pain. He remembered just getting to the hold when he was shot in the neck, seeing Napoleon fall, feeling the deck rise up to meet him. _I really hate THRUSH’s sleeping potions_ , he thought before wishing he could exchange this headache for his worst vodka hangover. He was freezing. He felt someone poking him, with what he couldn’t tell yet. He thought he was paralyzed and had difficulty breathing but soon realized he was thoroughly bound by rope to a steel chair -- he could move nothing but his head. He decided to feign unconsciousness until he had some information. He was soon rewarded.

“These two should be awake by now. Push the blond one harder. I will deal with the dark one.” _English!_ A female’s voice -- sultry, seductive, but with hard undertones. _Where have I heard that voice before?_ Illya strained to remember, but had no luck. The drug was still in control of his memory.

Then a man’s voice. Mumbling, unintelligible, coarse, angry. The force of the poking increased considerably. Illya thought it was time to “regain” consciousness. He gradually opened his eyes, noting that he was clad only in his boxer shorts and his leg dressing was gone, and raised his head.

A man’s face was only a few inches from his. The man stared in awe at his eyes for several moments. “Such eyes you have. I have not seen blue eyes very often.” The man spoke English with an impeccable Oxford accent. And he looked very familiar.

The man stood up without warning and slapped Kuryakin’s face hard with his left hand. The pistol in his right hand found its way to his left knee. The man pushed. Illya inhaled sharply with the sudden intensification of pain.

“You shot my brother, you Russian bastard,” the man said vehemently through clinched teeth. “Once was not enough. You had to shoot him _four_ times!” Now Kuryakin knew why the man looked familiar. To Illya’s great relief, his captor withdrew the handgun from Illya’s knee and raised it far above his head. “You will suffer as my brother suffers, pig!”

“Angelo, behave yourself.” The man, gun still raised high above his head, whirled to face the woman. For the first time, Kuryakin saw the woman. He instantly recognized her as the ticket agent in Cairo. This time she wore a black leather minidress and stiletto heels. He also saw Napoleon, hanging upside down and spread-eagled in shackles with only his boxers on, open his dark eyes just enough to watch. The woman sauntered over to stand by Kuryakin.

“You know we cannot torture them into unconsciousness or death, my dear Angelo,” she purred, stroking Illya’s flaxen locks. “At least, not until we discover what their mission is. Then you can avenge Antonio.” She went from stroking to snatching the Russian’s hair in less than a second, which elicited a tiny cry from him. Pulling hard, she hyperextended his neck and bent to lightly brush a kiss across his open lips. Staying a few millimeters from his mouth, she cooed, “Let me have him first, Angelo.” With her other hand, she began roughly massaging the Russian’s genitals. Illya, totally repulsed by this woman, suppressed the urge to vomit as she breathed into his mouth.

Kuryakin saw Angelo reluctantly lower the gun and his head. “You are right, 43. THRUSH’s needs come before my revenge. After we have the information, then it will be eye for eye, and more.”

The Oriental woman laughed through her nose. Sticking out her tongue, she slowly licked the bottom half of Kuryakin’s face. When her tongue passed through his mouth, he could not avoid gagging. She moved to his ear and whispered in a strange tone that was a combination of the sinister and the seductive, “You will be begging for this before I’m through, light one.” She licked his ear, then bit it hard without breaking skin, and finally released her hold on his hair. At the same time, she squeezed his scrotum tightly and pulled that hand away. Illya’s eyes widened in pain. As she stood up, she smacked the back of his head with deliberate force. This time, Illya didn’t try to suppress his urge so he dry-heaved.

Angelo and 43 thought that funny and began to laugh, but not so loud as to miss Solo’s sneeze. “Ah, the dark one joins us, Angelo. Do you know he is Italian? Actually, his parents are. So it is proper not to think of him as family. Do not hold back, my dear.” She strolled back over to Napoleon and squatted in front of him. “Hopefully not all of your blood has rushed to your head, my dark one. Hopefully there is enough to circulate elsewhere. Perhaps you will enjoy what the light one did not.” She leaned over slightly and licked him from hairline to chin.

Solo, repulsed as well, reacted by coughing and gagging. This turned his massive headache into one of biblical proportions. “Well, now, I hope you aren’t planning on bathing me. I am a bit _chilled_.” He hoped she would catch both meanings. “I don’t really like to be so…underdressed with a woman I barely know. Is it possible for me and my partner over there to wear a few more articles of clothing?” Getting warm was a priority.

“Absolutely…not!” She laughed hysterically. “Don’t you just _love_ witty girls, dark one?” Solo gave a noncommittal smile; Illya shook and lowered his head. While she continued to laugh, the agents scoped out the room. It was an oval room, with dingy beige walls, a door without an interior handle or hinges, and several bay windows near the ceiling that appeared to be for observation. There were two armoires, one chair that Illya was tied to, and two poles Napoleon hung from. Surprisingly, Illya’s cane rested against the nearest armoire. Escape would be difficult at best, but might be easier depending on the contents of the armoires.

The woman who called herself “43” stopped laughing. She stood, towering over Solo’s head. Then she dug the heel of her shoe in Solo’s armpit, allowing orgasmic growls to escape from her throat. He hissed through his teeth. As she applied more and more pressure, Solo yelped louder and louder. He felt himself getting woozy and knew he was close to losing consciousness. 43 sensed this without looking him and eased back on the pressure. “Now what can you tell me about your mission, dark one?”

“What makes you think we’re on a mission?” he forced out.

“Alexander Waverly is many things, but one thing he is _not_ is wasteful. He would never send a man whose injury compromises him significantly on an assignment unless it was one of great import. And so it would seem to the logical person that the light one is key here. But I would like to spare him suffering -- he has done so much as of late, wouldn’t you agree?”

“You know, I don’t quite think of you as having pity or mercy for anyone,” he said, straining to respond.

“Ummmm, well, perhaps you are correct. But ever since the airport, I have been fantasizing about you, dark one. About what I can give you. Pain and pleasure. They are so tightly woven together, yes?”

“Not really. I am failing to find the pleasure right now.”

At this, she threw her head back and guffawed. The movement caused her heel to grind in Napoleon’s axilla. He yelped again. She slowly let up and removed the offending heel from that delicate area. “Now I give you pleasure by taking away the pain! It is pleasurable, no?”

“Sorry to disappoint, but the only thing you gave me was less pain.”

She looked down at him coyly. “You just need more experience, I should think.” She strolled to one of the armoires. Jerking open the top drawer, she rummaged around in it for a brief moment. She pulled something out of it. She was beaming when she turned back into the room. “Lovely, don’t you think?” she asked as she waved the electric cattle prod around.

“Oh my.” The CEA tried to sound unperturbed, even nonchalant. Kuryakin appeared placid, but his partner could detect his concern. Angelo looked merely disgusted.

“This is so exciting!” she squealed. She practically skipped over to stand in front of Solo once again. She toggled a switch in the butt of the prod. Everyone could here the buzz emanating from the device. She pointed the business end at Solo’s midsection. “Such difficult decisions. Where to start, how long to hold contact. But I say, enough thinking. Time to do!” The woman touched the prod to Solo’s upper inner thigh.

The jolt bit deeply and electricity seemed to course around Solo’s pelvis. He grimaced and somehow managed not to make a sound -- he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. She shocked him again and again, each time getting a millimeter or two closer to his genitals. Solo was no longer trying to keep quiet.

The woman stopped without warning, but Solo remained prepared for the inevitable return of the electric pain. “Angelo, there is no reason that I should be the only one having fun. You know what to do.” When Angelo hesitated, showing uncertainty and disgust in his dark face, 43 snapped, “Remember what that Russian piece of _merde_ did to your brother! Too bad he cannot be here -- the dark one is just his type.” He ran to the same armoire, flung open the doors, and pulled out a knife and a carton of salt. When he faced Kuryakin, loathing and anger replaced the uncertainty and disgust.

All eyes were on Angelo now. The THRUSHman said nothing as he snipped the few stitches placed by Cellucci just hours before, cutting into Illya’s injury as he did this. Illya ground his teeth at this latest infliction of pain. His wound began to bleed again. He allowed himself a quick look at Napoleon -- concern and worry in his eyes -- and at the woman named 43 -- an near- orgasmic glaze in her eyes -- before he closed his eyes to what was coming.

Just as Angelo poured salt in Kuryakin’s wound, 43 applied the cattle prod to Napoleon’s scrotum. The partners bellowed in agony together. Napoleon quickly lapsed into unconsciousness. Illya was not lucky enough to pass out. After the initial scream, Illya only had the energy to whimper softly. His head lolled. Through his thick hazy fog of pain, a corner of his mind was happy for Napoleon.

The door burst open and Vittorio Arzanotti churned into the room. “You imbeciles! I instructed you not to start without me! _I_ am the one to question them, to break them.” He scurried over to stand next to 43. “Just look at this man Solo! Out already! Have you no finesse, 43?” The troll-man inspected Kuryakin. The blond agent was barely conscious, definitely weakened, breathing in short, shallow gasps, and gray. “Why can’t you be more like Angelo? That damned Russian will give up his _mother_ soon!” He stamped a foot several times on the floor. “Control room!” he yelled as he reared his head back to look up at the array of bay windows. “Turn on the water as soon as we are ready!”

At this command, Kuryakin groaned. The introduction of water to interrogation or torture was a harbinger of worse things to come. Angelo heard the groan and promptly slapped Kuryakin’s face. Not to be outdone, Arzanotti smacked the unconscious agent.

43 retrieved two umbrellas from the second armoire. She gave one to the Rome satrap. The other she opened and indicated that Angelo should join her. As the three THRUSHes huddled under the umbrellas, two slots opened in the ceiling directly above each agent. Large metal nozzles protruded from the slots. There was a grinding noise, immediately followed by torrents of cold water from the nozzles.

The frigid wetness stole Illya’s breath away. It was difficult to see beyond the cascading liquid drenching him, but with effort, he was able to move his head so he could observe his partner.

Solo remained unconscious, but it was apparent that he was having trouble breathing. Water poured into his nose and mouth relentlessly. He coughed repeatedly.

Kuryakin, hoarse from screaming so much earlier, croaked, “Please, stop! Solo will drown! If he does, I will die before I will tell you anything!” During his plea, he had had to swallow a large amount of the water. Now he was freezing on the inside, too. He began to shiver violently.

The flow of water slowed. The Russian could see his partner more clearly. He, too, was shivering, but also seemed to be moving with some purpose. Kuryakin also noticed that the floor was covered with only a half-inch of water. Then the troll-man blocked his view.

“Tell me what your mission is, you worthless piece of excrement! Then I will stop the water and leave you to the able 43 and Angelo. I will let you live if Central so orders.” Kuryakin hadn’t noticed that Arzanotti had his cane until the satrap was pointing it at him. Illya tried not to look alarmed.

Arzanotti waved 43 over to Solo. Angelo, not wanting to get wet, tagged along. “Now, Russian dog, you will get to know your cane more intimately than ever before. I am somewhat familiar with this device already.” Arzanotti triggered the release of the stiletto. Grinning maliciously, he started poking Kuryakin on any part of his body not covered with rope, stopping before breaking skin. He laughed maniacally. “When will I draw blood, Russian cur?” Over his shoulder, he said, “43, resume the electrocution of Solo once he is awake.”

Kuryakin was not phased by Arzanotti’s actions. The pain inflicted was minor and temporary, and the mental torture just didn’t exist. But he knew it behooved him to pretend the “torture” was just that, so he moaned whenever it seemed appropriate. His greatest concern was that he would have a significant shiver while Arzanotti pressed the stiletto into his flesh. This went on for about a minute before Solo regained consciousness. Kuryakin’s greatest concern switched to his partner.

The water markedly improved the conductivity of Napoleon’s skin. 43 touched the cattle prod to the area just under his collarbone. He emitted a strangled cry while his body twisted from the intense shock. The twisting, together with the shivering and coughing, magnified his suffering as he strained against the shackles. The right side of his chest felt as if it had spontaneously combusted.

Kuryakin could not hold his tongue any longer. “You idiots! He cannot talk like that even if he wanted to!” He suddenly was aware that the ropes were not as tight.

Arzanotti roared. “Who are _you_ calling an idiot?” He proceeded to slice Kuryakin across the chest. “Give me the salt, Angelo! Turn off the water, NOW!”

Surprisingly, the pain from the long cut was minimal. As far as he could tell, it wasn’t very deep, either. Kuryakin looked up just in time to see Arzanotti come at him with a handful of salt. The satrap almost had to climb onto Kuryakin’s lap to brutally smear the salt into the fresh wound. Illya cursed the new pain through gritted teeth and strained against the ropes. _They are definitely looser!_ He began working to get his hands free and hoped that his constant shivering hid the effort.

Arzanotti finally lost his balance and fell to the wet floor. He began cursing and turning purple as he used the cane to regain his footing. Illya saw he had activated one of the altered features. It wouldn’t work until the stiletto was retracted.

The satrap retracted the stiletto. He swung the cane under his arm, holding it like a swagger stick. He faced Kuryakin and was just about to speak when he inadvertently triggered the release of a small bomb of plastique. The projectile found a home and detonated on impact.

43, who had been standing behind Arzanotti, felt only a spark of pain as the missile penetrated her abdomen. She didn’t even have time to look surprised before she exploded.

Arzanotti and Angelo were stunned, but the U.N.C.L.E. agents weren’t. While the THRUSHmen stared in slack-jawed disbelief at the beautiful woman with a new hole in her belly, Kuryakin managed to work his hands out of the ropes. He began to stretch the ropes around his chest and lower legs. Solo began plotting what he could do to divert attention away from his partner.

Angelo was the first to move. He stumbled over to 43’s body. Tears welled in his eyes and his normally swarthy complexion turned ashen. The big man picked up the cattle prod and stared at it. He turned the voltage to maximum. Solo saw the man’s expression change from horror to resolve; _Nothing good is going to happen now…_

Angelo spun around to face the troll-man and Kuryakin. In a threatening whisper, he said, “You killed her, so you must pay.” It was impossible for either man to determine whom Angelo was addressing. A look of terror flashed across Kuryakin’s face momentarily, so swift that only Napoleon saw it. Solo thought this was the perfect time to go into his diversion.

“Hey, you two THRUSHes, I can’t take any more,” he said hoarsely, trying to sound defeated. “I’m ready to talk. I can’t stand this…this…torture any longer.”

Both Angelo and Arzanotti ignored him. Angelo slowly walked toward his boss and the Russian. Arzanotti stared at the big man, transfixed. Illya ceased trying to escape his bonds. Solo continued to insist he was ready to tell them anything they wanted to know.

Quickly, Angelo seized the Rome satrap by his throat. “You killed her. You must pay,” he said matter-of-factly.

“No, no, you imbecile,” the little man squeaked. “It was an accident! It was that Russian pig’s ca…”

Vittorio Arzanotti was forced to swallow the cattle prod so recently used on Napoleon Solo. The troll-man looked thoroughly grotesque as his body jerked uncontrollably. As he collapsed to the wet floor, he befouled his trousers. Between the stench and the sight of the ugly little man seizing, both U.N.C.L.E. agents turn their heads away.

Angelo simply stared at the convulsing figure at his feet. After a few moments, he turned to Kuryakin. _He’s got the taste for killing, and I am next_ , the Russian thought as he studied the determined, bitter, angry, and deadly countenance of the bulky man.

“Your turn, now, to pay for my brother,” the big man said in a low snarl. In one pounce, he was straddling Illya and had his meaty hands around the agent’s vulnerable neck.

Napoleon Solo screamed out, “Hey, listen to me! If you kill him, you won’t get the information _you_ need and then THRUSH will kill you!” Solo felt totally impotent. He struggled against his bonds as best he could between shivers, which were coming much more frequent and severe.

Kuryakin was helpless to stop Angelo. He could feel himself sliding into oblivion, the heavy pain in his leg seeming farther away. _Napoleon is slurring his speech -- hypothermia is getting worse_. Then, somewhere far away, he felt something give. His right leg felt different. Without making a conscious decision, Illya garnered what little strength he had left and poured it all into raising his right leg. Then oblivia welcomed him.

Angelo hiccuped as Illya’s knee drove into his genitals. He didn’t move or speak for a few moments. Then he loosened his stranglehold on the Russian’s neck and slid to the floor. Face deeply ashen, he curled into the fetal position and clasped his aching balls.

Napoleon burst out laughing. He quickly tamed his funny bone when he saw that his partner was unconscious. “Illya! Wake up! Come on, Illya!” He yelled this repeatedly, but his yelling rapidly became croaking between shivers.

Kuryakin could hear someone -- _Napoleon?_ \-- calling him from a great distance. _It’s so dark in here, I must be in a well or shaft_. _I can’t breathe!_ Trying not to panic, Illya began gulping for air. He felt like he was breathing through a straw, but he was getting air with great effort. It sounded like Napoleon was getting closer. “Il-ly-a! Breathe! Wake up! That’s it!” he heard his partner say with great urgency. His head flopped back and he opened his eyes. _What is going on?_

Solo could tell his partner was more confused than he should have been. He glanced down at Illya’s feet. They were a light blue, almost white. _Hypothermia!_ “Dammit, Illya, snap out of it!” He could feel his vocal cords revolting as he shrieked the loudest he could manage. He could hear the slurring now, and knew he was falling victim as well to the cold. “Break free -- you’re almost there!”

The blond agent slowly lifted his head and looked at his partner. Seeing Solo spread-eagled and upside down was all the motivation he needed. Again, he mustered energy and strength from the bottom of a seemingly endless well of survival and worked the ropes off his hands first, then his arms, chest, and left leg followed. Once freed, he fell off the chair and crumbled next to the unmoving Angelo. He gasped even harder for air. His eyelids began to flutter. He wanted to sleep. When he heard Napoleon screech his name again, he threw his partner a dirty look. _Have to shut him up -- hard enough to sleep with shivering_. To stand, he pushed off Angelo’s bulk -- to which there was no reaction from Angelo. Illya promptly fell across Angelo, his knee making sharp contact with the Italian’s hands. This brought a deep grunt from the large man, and he curled up tighter. Illya didn’t notice because he was wondering if he still had feet.

Napoleon unleashed a groan of frustration. “For Pete’s sake, Illya, _crawl_ over here.” Time was running out. Their shivering was constant now, and severe. If hypothermia didn’t get the two of them, Solo figured, the person or persons in the observation room were bound to eventually notice something was amiss and come in. And they would probably just kill them. _At this point, not an undesirable outcome_ , he thought ruefully.

Kuryakin managed to get on his hands and knees and dogged it over to Napoleon. Inches from Solo’s face, he whispered, “Screw Pete, and boat he rode in on.”

“It’s _horse_ , my friend. Now get my hands free.” As Illya, with numb fingers and poor coordination, fumbled with the shackle encircling Solo’s right wrist, the CEA took the opportunity to inspect his partner. Lots of rope burns, fingerprint bruises around the neck, a superficial cut across the chest, left leg wound open once more and oozing blood despite the constriction of blood vessels due to the cold. _This damned Guiding Star better be worth it_ , he swore under his breath.

Kuryakin no longer felt pain; he was numb all over. That made it easy to concentrate on the task at hand. The shackle did not require a key -- _Key, key, code key? Is that why I’m here?_ \-- to open it, but it did require some dexterity. It took him a full two minutes to unfasten the device. He returned to all fours and panted harshly, head next to Solo’s.

Now that his arm was released, Solo began to work it. He knew Illya could not stand to free his ankles. He wanted to be ready. He whispered in Illya’s ear, “Come on, just one more, _tovarisch_.” Illya nodded weakly and crawled over to begin work on the left wrist restraint.

Another two minutes, and Solo’s left arm was free. Illya, spent from the activity and falling into a deeper state of hypothermia, passed out and hit the floor. Solo exercised his arms with renewed vigor, tapping into his own bottomless well of energy. He screamed as he reached for the cuff around his left ankle. He was so stiff, it took him three tries before he made it. He had some feeling in his fingers, so he was able to release the catch in less than a minute. He straightened his body, allowing his left leg to dangle behind him. _Good thing I’m so cold or this would really hurt._ He breathed deeply to compensate for the activity and, he realized, for holding his breath while he worked.

Reaching the shackle on the right ankle proved extremely difficult until it finally occurred to the slow-thinking agent that he should hold his left leg close to his right. In less than a minute, he toppled to the wet floor, landing in a heap about an arm’s length from Kuryakin. The thundering headache kept him from losing consciousness.

The American agent laid there for a couple of minutes, to catch his breath and work out a plan. He was able only to achieve one goal. He crawled on hands and knees to his partner. He shook the Russian hard. In return he got a grunt. “Come on, Illya, let’s get out of here. Is there anything in the cane we can use?” He continued to shake the blond man.

Kuryakin forced the darkness out of his brain; his friend needed him. With a gargantuan effort, he opened his eyes and nodded ever so slightly. Solo, still talking, crawled over the now-shivering Angelo, and worked the cane out from under the unmoving Arzanotti. “Illya, tell me if this more explosive.”

Between his confusion and Solo’s slurred and fractured speech, Kuryakin took almost a minute to answer Napoleon. He nodded once and held up two fingers.

“Good. How activate?” Solo panicked when he saw Illya close his eyes again. “Illya!” he shouted hoarsely. Kuryakin’s eyes drifted open, but he couldn’t speak. “So tell me when I right place to active?” Solo slowly worked one hand up the cane until he saw Illya nod and signal a quarter-turn clockwise. _Hope you right_ , he thought. He aimed the cane at the lower half of the handleless door and pulled the trigger he had seen Arzanotti use.

The smoke quickly cleared. When Solo saw that the explosive tore away the top part of the door, he swore under his breath -- his shivering had thrown off his aim. They would never be able to get through the door in their current condition. His second and last try had to be successful.

The CEA activated the last explosive. He aimed again, compensating for the shivering. He carefully squeezed the trigger, noting in the back of his mind that his fingers were now without feeling.

The smoke dissipated a second time. The new hole was now low enough that they could get through the door. Solo used the cane to stand and continued to use it as he went back for Kuryakin. Angelo appeared to be stirring, albeit sluggishly. Though he was probably experiencing the early stage of hypothermia, the big Italian could still be a threat, so Solo fired the cane at the THRUSHman, hoping he was discharging a sleep-inducing dart. Angelo grunted, rubbed his side, and went to sleep.

As he maneuvered the unresponsive Russian away from Angelo, Solo couldn’t believe their luck that no one had come to investigate the three explosions. He knelt on one knee, encircled Illya’s waist with his arm, and stood. Ordinarily, Kuryakin was easy to lift, even as a dead weight. Now, however, he seemed to weigh 500 pounds. Calling on more energy, Solo, leaning heavily on the cane, half-dragged, half-carried Illya through the wounded door. The jagged edges sliced and stabbed both agents as they passed. Solo, and certainly Kuryakin, didn’t notice.

The hallway was much warmer than the room they had just abandoned. It was paneled in wood, with electric sconces high along the walls providing light. The ceiling was considerably lower than in the interrogation room. Elevator doors were at the end of the hallway to the right. An ornate deacon’s bench with a potted plant on one side stood partway down the hall. Napoleon decided to make that bench their first stop.

The warmth had given him renewed strength and resolve. Once on the bench, he labored to restore some of his circulation and Illya’s consciousness. After a few minutes, Kuryakin started showing signs of life. Ten more minutes passed, and Kuryakin was able to walk with assistance from Napoleon and the ubiquitous, life-saving cane. Shivering was once again intermittent. Neither man spoke as they struggled to the elevator. Talking used too much energy.

Neither man was surprised to discover that they were in the basement. Solo selected the button for ground floor. He leaned against the side of the elevator and Kuryakin leaned against him. His breathing was audible.

The door swished open and still no one appeared. The agents weren’t sure whether they should feel lucky or paranoid. “Find control?” Solo queried. That was the most likely place they would find other THRUSHies, but finding them would entail action or recapture. Illya had to agree.

The blond man agreed with a minute nod of his head. He tapped a spot on the cane twice, which released yet another trigger in the underside of the handle. “Four bullets,” he forced out through his swollen larynx.

Turning to the left, they shuffled down the hallway until they saw an opened door on their right. They stopped before reaching it. Solo thought he heard a cat in heat, but it was impossible to be certain over Illya’s loud breathing. He gestured for Illya to hold his breath. _Yep, sounds like a frisky cat -- what’s it doing in this room?_ He looked puzzled.

Kuryakin exhaled and shrugged his shoulders. With a wave of his head, he indicated they should move in. He raised the cane and leaned more into Napoleon for support.

It was the control room, reeking with the unmistakable odor of emesis. The control panel itself was quite elaborate, indicating that the water treatment was one of a number of interrogation techniques available at this installation. Illya shuddered at the thought at what else might have happened to them.

Solo’s attention was focussed on the source of the bizarre sounds and the malodor -- a long and lanky man curled around a metal trashcan. “Who are you? What’s going on here?” He questioned both softly and commandingly.

The man, who appeared to be in his mid-twenties, was hoarse and near dehydration from vomiting. He explained in frantic, choppy sentences that he was watching the session in the room. It had made him sick to see what was being done to the U.N.C.L.E. agents, but he literally had lost it when 43 blew up. He hadn’t moved since then from the trashcan and had no intentions of moving until absolutely necessary. With that, he had some dry heaves. Upon further gentle but persistent interrogation by Solo, the man revealed that his boss, Arzanotti, not wanting to share credit for breaking the U.N.C.L.E. agents, had dismissed all other THRUSH personnel and house staff at his villa. Besides the satrap, only he, the U.N.C.L.E. men, 43, and Angelo remained. The man exploded in agitated hysterics.

Solo and Kuryakin traded surprised but knowing looks. Neither could believe their good fortune. THRUSH’s ambitious members were again their own worst enemies.

“Let’s sit, Illya, until he can talk again. I can’t hold you. I think you put on weight.” Solo dragged his partner to the nearest chair at the console and carefully lowered him into it. He fell with a thud into the chair next to Illya’s and sighed. They waited until the man calmed down.

The man’s loose tongue knew no end. They discovered they were in Treviso in one of Arzanotti’s villas. It had numerous amenities, including heated whirlpool baths and a large, well-stocked kitchen. The man, who finally volunteered his name as Guido Santucci, hesitated when Solo asked him for help.

“Offer asylum,” Kuryakin said quietly.

Once Solo offered and guaranteed U.N.C.L.E.’s protection, Guido couldn’t be more helpful. He finally stood. Though wobbly, he was steadier on his feet than both agents combined, so he assisted both of them to the small gymnasium. Illya, more sensitive than Napoleon to odors, barely avoided gagging at Guido’s foul breath.

Guido dutifully started the larger of the two whirlpools. He helped both men out of their wet boxers. Napoleon got in the warm bath first, then he and Guido wrestled Illya in. The two men sat back-to-back. Guido left them to make sandwiches and coffee and to find them clothing.

Their bodies warmed up, and the pain crept back into every cell. They moaned and hissed quietly as blood flow and sensation returned to normal in their cold, battered bodies. They didn’t mind, because the pain gave them reassurance that they still lived.

“Assessment, Illya?” Solo’s voice betrayed his weariness and pain.

Kuryakin took several moments before replying. “Superficial frostbite. Mild, moderate hypothermia. New career perhaps.” His voice was still coarse and breathing was still a chore, but he doubted his larynx was dislocated or fractured. He decided not to worry his friend with this little detail. He sighed heavily.

“What?”

“Hungry.”

Solo smiled, and his mammoth headache seemed to drop a size or two.

#####

Guido was the man of the hour, as far as the U.N.C.L.E. agents were concerned. He brought them salami, turkey, and provolone sandwiched between lightly toasted and buttered slices of French bread. He brought them bottled mineral water. He brought them espresso. Most importantly, he brought them hope, hope that they might actually make it out of here and back to New York.

Solo and Kuryakin munched greedily on the sandwiches. Now that the pain of rewarming had passed, they were better able to ignore the agony remaining from their wounds and allow their appetites to lead them. After several sips of the espresso, they emerged like Venus from the sea, naked and warm and pink. Kuryakin was even able to climb out of the whirlpool under his own power.

The lanky Guido proved to be the consummate manservant. He wrapped each man in huge, warm, thick white towels. He had chairs ready for them to sit on while he dried their feet. Illya started to object, but Napoleon stopped him. The blond agent reluctantly relented, overcoming his somewhat socialistic sensibilities. Illya’s obvious discomfort with the situation amused Solo, and his headache cranked down yet another couple of notches.

The CEA, on the other hand, luxuriated in the pampering. _This would be perfect if Guido was the opposite sex_ , Solo thought as Guido fitted him with slippers. He was just getting ready to tease Illya when he noticed a sanguineous splotch on the towel draped over his left leg. “Uh, Guido, how good are you at tending wounds?” he asked as he gingerly rubbed the lump on the side of his chest.

For whatever reason, Guido grinned with ecstasy, clapped his hands together, and rushed out of the gym. Napoleon tossed Illya a beats-me look and shrugged his shoulders.

The partners just leaned against each other and relaxed, not speaking, sipping on the mineral water. The only sound was the Russian’s breathing. Both were almost asleep when Guido, carrying a large metal box, tore back into the gym. He stopped and squatted in front of Kuryakin. Without preamble, Guido flung open the box to reveal a remarkably complete medical kit. He laid bare the wound on Illya’s leg. “I fix,” he said in English, since it was obvious to him that his new patient was definitely not Italian.

Kuryakin’s hand flashed out from the depths of the towel. He grabbed Guido’s wrist hard and said threateningly through bared teeth, “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Guido was wilting rapidly under Illya’s devastating grip and cold stare. Solo, taken aback for a split second, said soothingly, “Illya, he’s OK. He could’ve killed us many times over already if he wanted to.” Illya maintained the death grip on Guido but turned his stare -- the one that always gave Solo a chill - on Napoleon. “Look, if he kills you, you can beat me up and tell me ‘I told you so’.”

Gradually, Illya’s stare and grip softened, and one corner of his mouth turned upwards. “Sorry. I am not given to trusting THRUSH. Go ahead.” He released Guido’s wrist.

Guido, unaware that he had been holding his breath, exhaled strongly. He worked swiftly and confidently on the Russian’s wound, chattering all the while in a feeble effort to calm his own nerves. The blond man frightened him on many levels, and he was determined not to displease him.

Illya was impressed with the man’s skill. His touch was gentle and sure. By the time the Italian was finished, the wound appeared as if Cellucci himself had worked on it. Guido applied a bulky dressing. “Give less pain if…hit.” He stood and backed away, face cloaked in an approval-seeking look.

Kuryakin, at last won over by Guido’s excellent care of him and his partner, relaxed considerably. “Thank you, Guido, thank you very much. For everything,” he rasped.

Guido’s face lit up like a major fireworks display. “ _Prego, signore_! Was student of medicine but too poor to finish. Work for Arzanotti” -- he practically spit out the name -- “to make money. Now, will have to find other job.”

Solo, who had developed a soft spot for the eager, atypical THRUSH minion, had an idea. He spoke slowly in Italian so Illya could follow along. “Guido, for helping us, I think U.N.C.L.E. could be persuaded to help you finish medical school.” Illya managed to look doubtful and alarmed at the same time, but quickly gave his support with a small nod.

Guido was overjoyed. Again, he clapped his hands. He bent down and gave Napoleon several cheek kisses. “ _Grazie, mille grazie, Signore Solo_!” He cried and laughed, not believing his good luck. Even Kuryakin was moved to smile.

Guido bandaged the U.N.C.L.E. agents’ recently acquired wounds, which fortunately oozed rather than poured blood. He had to assist both men with getting dressed in the THRUSH jumpsuits he had confiscated from the guards’ living quarters. Afterwards, the three men sat without speaking, the only sound being Kuryakin’s breathing.

Napoleon eventually broke the silence when he said languidly, “I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.”

Kuryakin snorted at his partner’s poorly done Southern accent. “All right, Blanche, what’s your plan?”

“Oh, Stanley, I think it’s your turn.”

Guido, who could follow the conversation, looked increasingly confused. Illya noticed, and said, “Tennessee Williams.” Guido smiled and nodded his understanding.

Continuing in English, Solo asked, “Guido, how do we get away from here?”

The young man knitted his brows until he figured out what Solo was asking. “Automobile, horses, motor bicycles, bicycles without motors.” He shrugged and lapsed into silence again.

“Well, Illya, do you have a preference?”

Before Kuryakin could reply, Guido abruptly sat forward and began pantomiming. He twirled his index finger in circles above his head and made whistling, whirring sounds.

The U.N.C.L.E. agents looked blankly at their caretaker and at each other. Illya ventured a guess. “Helicopter?”

“ _Si, si, si_ , that is it! I know not word for it. There is one here!”

Solo and Kuryakin exchanged smiles. Their luck continued to improve.

“Show us, Guido,” Napoleon said, working hard to keep the excitement out of his voice.

Guido jumped up and helped Illya rise before he could protest. He handed the Russian his cane. He turned to assist Napoleon, but he was already up. Before he could grab Illya by his right arm, Solo shook his head sternly and mouthed a “No.” Guido, feelings hurt, reluctantly backed off. He recovered quickly, though, and led the two men slowly through the halls to the rear of the estate.

There, beyond the glass wall and doors, was a new, huge helicopter on its own helipad.

Kuryakin whistled softly. “It’s a Sikorsky S61-F,” he said with hoarse reverence.

“Never even heard of this model.”

“It’s a jet helicopter. It can fly at speeds approaching 400 kilometers per hour.”

“But can you _fly_ that contraption?”

Kuryakin flashed Napoleon a perturbed look. “Of course. I have read the specifications and manual for this several weeks ago. I believe you have copies of the literature on your desk.”

Solo raised his eyebrows and curled his lips inward. “Well, I had other, more pressing matters. Besides, you _are_ the better pilot.” He knew that fact would not excuse his lack of knowledge about the new helicopter. “You fly, I navigate.”

Kuryakin shook his head in mock disgust. “Let’s check it out.” Guido, hearing that, bolted ahead and slid open one of the doors.

The three men stepped outside in the unseasonably warm mid-afternoon sunshine. The U.N.C.L.E. agents finally realized that they had left Venice HQ only a scant twelve hours earlier. In some ways, it seemed much longer; in others, it felt much shorter. Fighting, capture, torture, freezing, and death had a tendency to do that.

The Russian hobbled slowly around the aircraft, inspecting it closely, tugging here, punching there, while Solo and Guido watched. He opened the pilot’s door. He tried unsuccessfully to climb in. The other two men were at his side within seconds. They boosted Kuryakin into the pilot’s seat. He blushed, ashamed of his need for help. Solo and Guido sensed this, and quickly backed away.

Kuryakin studied the instrumentation. After a few minutes, he rasped with a grin, “Just like the book. Napoleon, chart us a course for Balzers, Liechtenstein. Guido, how about provisions for three?”

Fifteen minutes later, Illya Kuryakin launched the Sikorsky ‘copter. Napoleon Solo perched in the co-pilot’s seat, ready to assist with the flying should Illya’s leg act up. Guido Santucci sat in the back, happy to be moving on to his new life.

Moments after take-off, Angelo crashed out of the villa, one hand still cradling his crotch, the other balled into a fist which he shook angrily at the departing “guests.” Illya was unable to hear him shout, “You will pay for my brother, Russian pig!”

Kuryakin suddenly remembered something. He spoke into the microphone attached to his headset. “Napoleon! We forgot to destroy their communications!”

Napoleon Solo grinned mischievously. “ _You_ forgot, my friend. _I_ remembered. And why are we going to Liechtenstein, anyway?”

#####

U.N.C.L.E. maintained a hangar for the repair and upkeep of its European winged fleet on the outskirts of Balzers, a small village in the mountainous southern region of Liechtenstein. Everyone working at the facility had to pass the rigorous security check required of all U.N.C.L.E. employees, regardless of job description. All of them received training in communications and weapons use and were required to speak fluent English. Sabotaging U.N.C.L.E.’s fleet of aircraft would have devastating effects on the ability of the organization to fulfill its mission.

Which was why the station scrambled to a red alert when it became apparent that an unidentified helicopter was approaching the airfield directly. The security officer in charge that early evening, Sally Crowe, ordered the teams manning the surface-to-air missile pods to begin tracking the flying intruder and to be ready to fire immediately. Within one minute, all four teams radioed in that they were tracking and ready to fire.

“Cameron,” she said calmly, which belied her feelings of fear and anxiety, “try to raise the pilot on radio.” She began pacing in a tight pattern that allowed her to maintain eye contact with the radar screen.

“Yes, ma’am.” The communications officer reached to toggle the necessary switches. Before he could complete his task, the speaker blasted a squawk, followed by a voice in American-accented English that said, “Attention, U.N.C.L.E.-Balzers. This is Napoleon Solo, Section One, Number Two. Requesting permission to land. Please respond. Over.”

Crowe and Cameron exchanged puzzled looks. Without hesitation, she motioned for Cameron to open the microphone. “This is U.N.C.L.E.-Balzers. You are in restricted, secured airspace. What is the password? If you do not respond correctly or within five seconds, you will be shot down. Over.”

Napoleon Solo blanched, and his memory went blank. His omnipresent headache got worse. “Illya! I don’t remember it! What is it?” The urgency in his voice caught the attention of Guido, who hunched forward and turned very pale.

Kuryakin cursed in Russian. “What day of the week is it? Quickly!”

“Tuesday!” Both agents looked over their shoulders at Guido, the unexpected source of the information. The young Italian man was now sweating profusely.

“Yes, of course. That means the password is…ummm…” Kuryakin racked his brain.

“Come on, Illya, there’s no time,” Napoleon prodded in low, almost threatening tones.

“Then you come up with…” Illya didn’t finish the sentence as he worked the Sikorsky controls to bank hard left followed by an upwards spiral in a successful attempt to avoid the SAM that rushed them. He allowed a small cry of pain to escape -- his left leg was rebelling at the harsh demand put on it.

Before anyone in the helicopter could speak again, a second SAM came after the aircraft. This time, Kuryakin began to pull the machine into a loop. When Solo realized what his partner was doing, he screamed, “You can’t do a loop-de-loop in a chopper!”

The g-forces slammed the three men back into their seats. Kuryakin continued with the maneuver, making “Rrrrrr” sounds through gritted teeth. Napoleon unconsciously held his breath, while Guido edged closer to another bout of hysteria. About one-third of the way through the loop, the SAM whizzed by harmlessly.

Those on the ground who could see the Sikorsky watched in awe as it completed the loop. The maneuver even stilled Sally Crowe. But when it was over, she snatched up a pair of high-power binoculars. Focussing on the fast-moving helicopter, she spied what appeared to be a familiar stylized fighting bird emblem. “Well, I’ll be damned,” she thought out loud. “SAM 2, fire when target acquired. And don’t miss!”

Kuryakin’s entire body trembled and was drenched in sweat, but he managed to keep the helicopter under control and out of the mountains surrounding the town. His leg hurt even worse, and Guido’s muttering of prayers served as a serious distraction. He ventured a glance at Napoleon in the co-pilot’s seat. His usually unflappable partner was pale with green tinges and perspiring heavily. His cheeks were puffed out in response to a very primal urge to purge. Illya could sympathize.

Then he remembered the password. “Napoleon! Forest for…” He spotted the third SAM targeting them. He dove into its path then banked hard right and pulled up seconds before lethal contact with the SAM and a mountain. The SAM buzzed by them.

Cameron shook his head in amazement. “Who the hell is flying that thing?” he said with undisguised admiration.

Crowe was thinking and feeling the exact same things the radio operator was, but chose not to voice it. Just as she was getting ready to order the firing of the fourth SAM, the speaker squealed.

“Forest for the trees! The goddamned password is forest for the trees!” There was a slight pause and the American voice, cool once more, continued. “We are one of yours. So quit firing at us, dammit. Permission to land.” He said it as an order, not a request.

“Permission granted, Mr. Solo. You may land at the helipad. Just look for the lights. Over and out.” She nodded to Cameron who promptly threw the necessary switches. She spoke into her two-way radio. “SAMs, stand down. Secure the area around pad number two. Keep well behind the lights. I’ll be there shortly.”

Illya Kuryakin landed the Sikorsky jet helicopter with a noticeable bounce. As drained as he was, he was pleased not to have crashed-landed. He shut down the machine, then sat with arms dangling at his side and head slumped forward. He noticed that all of them were breathing heavily.

“Illya, I will _never_ let you fly another helicopter with me as a passenger again. You don’t fly straight.” Silently, Solo thanked the gods that Illya was a better pilot than he, even when the Russian was not at the top of his game. Solo unbuckled himself and slowly opened the door, allowing fresh air into the cabin. “See the welcoming committee in the shadows?”

The blond agent barely nodded. He preferred to use his energy breathing.

Solo turned to look at Guido Santucci. The Italian sat stiffly upright in his seat, hands white from still clenching the armrests, eyes straight ahead and vacant. “Guido, we’re safe now. You’re on the ground. Let’s get out of here.”

When there was no response from Guido, Napoleon shrugged his shoulders and tapped his partner on the arm. “Let’s get out of here. I’ve had enough fun for now. Dinnertime.” As he began to climb out of the helicopter, a bright light shining directly into his face greeted him. Involuntarily, he covered his eyes with his arm and stumbled out of the aircraft. _Perfect -- they still don’t trust us! Guess I wouldn’t either seeing that stupid bird on this thing._ “Uh, we come in peace. Take me to your leader,” he said in his most charming voice.

A female voice came from behind and to the right of the light. “That would be me, Mr. Solo. Welcome to U.N.C.L.E.-Balzers, sir.” The light snapped off. Solo’s eyes adjusted quickly to see a tall, slender woman with chin-length dark hair putting an U.N.C.L.E. Special in a front left belt holster. Thrusting her hand at him, she said, “Sally Crowe, assistant chief, security.” She smiled deprecatingly. “Sorry about the welcome, but…”

“Oh no, Miss Crowe,” he interrupted, “no need to apologize. You were just doing your job. But perhaps we need to work on why those SAMs didn’t hit target.” Solo didn’t bother to say that he knew the reason was the superb flying of his partner. “Not that I’m complaining. If your people can assist my partner and our passenger out of the helicopter, I’d appreciate it.”

Crowe signaled to her team. Four men approached the helicopter. To the two going to help Kuryakin, Solo warned, “Careful, gentlemen. He bites.”

Moments later, Solo watched as Illya Kuryakin, one arm draped over the shoulders of a security officer, began the walk to the main building. They were followed closely by two officers carrying the still-silent Guido on their cradle of arms. Solo started to follow, but almost fell. He hadn’t realized his knees had turned to rubber. Sally Crowe clutched him around his waist. “Sir, if you don’t mind me saying so, after being in that helicopter, I am surprised any of you are even conscious. If you will come with me…”

Once Solo and Crowe left the helipad, the Sikorsky was swarmed by mechanics thrilled with the opportunity to examine the new helicopter. And they spoke in quiet awe of the blond agent who flew it so spectacularly.

#####

The medic at the facility gave the three men cursory examinations. Surprisingly, Kuryakin’s leg wound had not bled, and the stitches were still intact. The medic didn’t think his larynx was fractured or dislocated, but suspected the hoarseness would continue for several days. Only one abraded area on Solo’s right ankle looked suspicious for infection and the medic applied a topical antibiotic and non-stick bandage. The U.N.C.L.E. agents got aspirin, phenacetin, and caffeine capsules to treat their headaches and other pains. Guido began to respond, the vacant stare replaced with one of terror.

Solo and Kuryakin moved on to a light meal of mixed greens salad, chicken sandwiches, and mineral water. They requested and received two new pen communicators and new clothes. Kuryakin said he thought Napoleon should report to Mr. Waverly: “I have to use the washroom.” He grinned to himself and limped, _sans_ cane, out of the room before Solo could protest.

When he returned, Illya was not surprised to find Napoleon in a bad mood. The old man was sure to be furious about them almost getting blown out of the air by their own people. And the time they were taking to get back to New York… _Serves him right -- saying I am housebroken._ “Can I safely assume our chief is not pleased?”

Solo huffed. “You can assume just that. It seems the satellite is having some trouble, but is expected to be functional very soon. He’s sending an invasion team to the villa in Treviso. If THRUSH has already cleaned up, you can bet they are looking for us again.”

Kuryakin sighed. “Then I suggest we get back to New York. I got us this far. Have you asked for an U.N.C.L.E. jet?”

“I figured this was why we headed for Liechtenstein. How did you know about this place, anyway?”

“This is Liechtenstein’s contribution to U.N.C.L.E.. Because of its value and vulnerability, it is kept secret from most personnel. I only know about it because I was consulted on the defense system.”

“So that’s how you defeated the SAMs. And you’re letting everyone think it was your flying! You sly Russian!”

Earnestly, Illya said, “Napoleon, evading the SAMs…” He stopped when he realized Solo was teasing him. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”

Solo laughed easily and stood. “Come on, _tovarisch_. I say we dump these THRUSH fashion statements and get some of our own. Let’s pack us a picnic and some guns and pick out a plane. This time, _I’m_ driving.”

“Napoleon, one _drives_ a submarine or an automobile. One _flies_ a jet,” Illya retorted with a touch of condescension.

Solo inhaled sharply to answer, but exhaled laughing when he realized he was being teased. “ _Touché_ , my friend. Let’s get the hell out of Dodge.”

“But we’re in…”

“I’ll explain later.”

#####

U.N.C.L.E.’s top two enforcement agents said their good-byes to the security team and to Guido. The Italian was finally speaking and flatly refusing to fly in anything, anywhere, ever again; it was agreed that he would travel to U.N.C.L.E.-Paris, where they were expecting him for debriefing and rehabilitation, thanks to Solo, by ground transportation the next day.

As Solo and Kuryakin strolled to their waiting Learjet, Solo commented on Illya’s lack of a cane. “After all, you are still limping.” Surprisingly, the limp was not as pronounced as before, despite the beatings the wound had taken in the last 24 hours.

“It was practically empty, so I disabled what was left of it. Besides, I can walk adequately without it now.”

“Well, it’s helped us get out of several jams. Maybe we should keep it as a good-luck charm.”

“Napoleon, you sound like a superstitious _babushka_.”

They arrived at the foot of the steps to the jet. The mechanic waiting for them reached for Solo’s hand and shook it. “This bird is ready for you, sir. I understand _you_ will be piloting this craft?”

“Ah, yes, I will,” Solo said. Illya picked up on the annoyance in his voice, knowing it was intended for him. He permitted the sides of his mouth turn up.

“Very good, sir. She’s fully fueled, armed, and ready for flight. Good luck, sir.” He turned to the smaller, blond man. He grabbed Kuryakin’s hand and pumped it enthusiastically. “Mr. Kuryakin, sir, it’s been an honor and a privilege. No one here has _ever_ seen such…such…well, stupendous flying. None of us will ever forget it. Thank you, sir.”

The obvious hero worship made the Russian very uncomfortable. He blushed lightly, nodded, and smiled grimly. In his peripheral vision, he caught Napoleon looking both annoyed and amused. He gently extricated his hand from the grasp of the ardent mechanic and motioned for Solo to climb the steps. He could see his partner laughing soundlessly as he boarded the airplane. He followed as quickly as he could.

They went through the checklist together. Solo asked for clearance for take-off and received it immediately from Sally Crowe, who invited them back any time they were in the neighbor, provided they had the correct password.

“Well, Illya, it would seem you have a fan club,” Napoleon teased as the jet climbed to cruising altitude.

“Perhaps. At least _I_ got us to Balzers alive.”

“Ouch! Hard to wear that mantle of hero, isn’t it? I know; somehow, I manage to bear it every day.”

Illya shook his head and snorted. “Yes, my friend, you do hold up well under the stress of…hero-hood.” He hunkered down in this chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Wake me if you need a real pilot.” He fell asleep at once and didn’t hear Napoleon’s comeback.

#####

They refueled the Learjet in Edinburgh because Heathrow in London was likely to be under close THRUSH surveillance. They took off just after 1 a.m. local time. The United States and the end of this assignment were a mere eight to ten hours away.

There was little conversation during the flight over the Atlantic Ocean. After a few hours, Napoleon Solo woke his partner from a sleep that didn’t seem to have nightmares intruding, filled him on position and conditions, then closed his own eyes for some much needed rest. For some reason, he knew he would dream about his dead wife.

Illya Kuryakin stretched carefully and checked the instruments. He chose to keep the auto-pilot engaged. He thought about the last few days. Despite all that had happened, his thoughts always seemed to be drawn to the Romani. They were the closest thing he had to family, but because of the memories dredged up when he was with them, he dreaded being with them. He had despised what he had to do to survive and to protect his world from the Nazis. But he was right and they were wrong, and not just because the Allies won. Still, that gave him little solace.

He sighed and resolved not to brood. He shifted his thoughts to working out some problems with several experiments he had going in his laboratory.

#####

U.N.C.L.E.’s chief enforcement agent chose to land the company jet at a small airfield in Connecticut. He knew of its existence because this was where he had learned to fly, right after his return from Korea and discharge from the service. The runway was long enough to handle the small jet, and there were planes for rent. This was all a part of his plan to get his partner back into U.N.C.L.E. headquarters with the code key for Operation Guiding Star.

It was 4 a.m. local time, but there was activity because of the anticipated arrival of Napoleon Solo’s Learjet. He gently set the jet down on the runway and taxied to the nearest hangar as instructed. Once inside, he shut down the engines and turned to Kuryakin. “Now, _that_ was flying, my friend,” trying to goad Illya.

“Napoleon,” he said as he unbuckled the harness, “anyone can land under these circumstances. I’m just thankful you didn’t have to land an aeroplane at Balzers. We would have been picking pieces of mountain out of our hair.”

Solo knew Illya was right. Landing a plane at Balzers was not for part-time pilots like himself. But he wasn’t about to let Illya know that. “Next time we’re in Europe and a plane needs work, I call dibs on flying it in.”

“Just let me out before you try it.” He swiveled the chair around, stood, and started to leave the cabin. “Aren’t you supposed to get me home?” He left Napoleon, still harnessed in the pilot’s chair.

Solo drummed his right fingers on the armrest as he absentmindedly rubbed his right side with his left digits. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet. Just wait until you see my _next_ landing.” He grinned and released himself from the constraints of the harness.

#####

Mike Hamilton, the owner of and only instructor at the Harvard Flight School and Airfield (he had named it “Harvard” to incite the Yalies and so his students could say they had graduated Harvard), had provided the two U.N.C.L.E. agents a small two-seater. He even gave them leather flight jackets with the school’s name embroidered on the back. When they tried to decline, he had insisted: “Good advertising, and it’s mighty cold up there.” They had reluctantly but graciously accepted, with the intention that they would ditch the jackets as soon as they were on the ground in New York City. Neither man wanted Hamilton to be the object of reprisals for helping them.

Morning in New York proved to be magnificent. There was a refreshing chill to the clear air, the sky was dotted with only a few puffy white clouds, and the leafless trees looked like abstract art. Both men were glad to be home, though they knew it was never for long.

As Napoleon Solo circled Central Park, still largely deserted except for a few runners and horseback riders because of the early hour, Illya felt his skin crawl in alarm. “Napoleon, you aren’t, are you?”

“Oh yes, I am. THRUSH would never think to look here. They’re watching real airports, the subways, the trains, the highways. Never in a million years would they watch Central Park for us. Clever American, huh?”

“But, but…” Illya stuttered.

“Mr. Waverly cleared it with the authorities. We talked about it while you were in the can in Balzers. Don’t blame me if you choose not to participate in important planning.”

“I don’t believe this. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You didn’t ask. Ah, see that guy down there waving at us? It’s safe to land now.”

“WHERE!??!”

“Hang on!” Solo guided the plane to the far end of the park and started the descent. He cut altitude quickly once past an area of trees and touched down on the Great Lawn, finally stopping just short of the police station. A contingent of men in blue clapped and cheered.

Illya remembered to breathe. He knew Napoleon was reveling in this admiration. And he knew he would be hearing about this landing for years to come. “Napoleon, your showing off will be the death of me yet.”

Solo just laughed and waved at the cheering knot of men. He gracefully lifted himself out of the seat, climbed onto the wing, and waved again. He turned to Illya and queried, “Need some help getting out of there?”

Illya shot him a nasty look. “I’ll manage. Go and greet your fans.”

Napoleon clapped Kuryakin on the back, shed his jacket, and tossed it in his recently vacated seat. He straightened his flight suit before effortlessly jumping off the wing. As he neared the tiny crowd, Illya was thankful that the attention was on his partner, not him as he struggled out of the seat and off the plane. He, too, removed his jacket and left it behind in the plane.

By the time Kuryakin caught up with his partner, Solo was in a deep discussion with four uniformed officers and a man in a suit. The rest of the crowd was dispersing.

“…volunteers, right?” Solo was saying. “I want to reiterate what I am sure my superior has already made clear. This is apt to be dangerous. I must deliver my partner to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters alive and in good health.” He paused for effect. “I cannot convey how important this is.”

The man in the suit spoke. “Mr. Solo, we understand completely. These men are aware of the dangers and they have volunteered for this assignment. They will do what it takes to get your partner to HQ unscathed.” The four uniformed men, who were standing in the military at-ease position, solemnly nodded their heads.

“Very good, gentlemen. U.N.C.L.E., my partner, and I thank you for your assistance. Captain,” Solo addressed the man in street clothes, “your cooperation is also greatly appreciated. If everything goes well, you’ll have your men back within the hour.” The CEA shook the captain’s hand.

Well, then, Mr. Solo, Mr….?”

“Kuryakin, Captain,” the Russian agent said.

“Uh, yes. Your escorts are Sergeant Rafferty, Sergeant O’Brien, Officer Pendleton, and Officer DeLuca. I will take my leave now. Good luck, gentlemen. Please give my best to Alexander.” The captain performed a precise about-face and headed for the precinct doors.

Napoleon Solo explained to the five men his plan to get Illya into HQ. They would go in two police cars, the first with two officers who would run interference. The second car would have the other two officers and the U.N.C.L.E. agents. The route to HQ would be circuitous, making it easier to spot -- and hopefully lose -- any tails. Should there be an encounter with THRUSH, their only objectives were to protect Kuryakin at all costs and to facilitate his escape. That said, Solo offered them one last chance to back out. All four cops refused.

“Very good, officers. The coffee and donuts are on me once we reach headquarters. Shall we?”

None of the six men happened to observe a man in sweatclothes lurking behind a nearby tree. He watched as they climbed into two patrol cars. He committed the cars’ numbers to memory. He waited until they had pulled away before he ran to the nearest telephone in the park. Furiously, he dialed the number. It was answered on the first ring. “This is Delaney,” he said excitedly. “Get me whoever’s in charge right now. I’ve spotted Solo and Kuryakin! I was out jogging…”

#####

The U.N.C.L.E. enforcement agents sat in the rear seat of the second squad car. Rafferty was driving, Pendleton was riding shotgun. Ahead of there were O’Brien and DeLuca. All were armed with pistols and rifles.

Kuryakin had twisted in his seat so he could better look out the back windshield. Solo leaned toward him and spoke softly so that only Illya could hear him. “We get in trouble, you vanish. You evade capture. You get to HQ. Is that understood?” He knew his partner and friend all too well. He knew Illya would fight, not only to hurt or destroy THRUSH, but to protect and save his partner even if it meant sacrificing himself. But he, Solo, couldn’t let Illya’s obsessive need to defeat THRUSH and personal loyalties jeopardize the mission. But he understood the intense Russian completely, since he felt the same way. _Well, maybe I wouldn’t characterize myself as ‘obsessive.’_

Illya gave Napoleon one of his steely, defiant stares and said nothing. He resumed scanning the traffic and pedestrians. While one part of his brain worked to recognize any possible threats, the other acknowledged that Solo was correct. The code key was obviously quite important and time-critical. That didn’t make what he might have to do any more palatable.

When the two-vehicle urban caravan was about 12 blocks from U.N.C.L.E. HQ, Solo and Kuryakin simultaneously became aware of the sound of a helicopter. “Napoleon, was there anything in your plan about…?”

“Helicopters? No, there wasn’t. Sergeant, alert the others. I think something is about to happen.” Just as he finished speaking, he recognized several THRUSH thugs as they emerged from a nearby subway station.

“Three, no four, motor scooters approaching us from the rear. I think there may be two riders per scooter.” Illya’s still-hoarse voice took on cold and mechanical qualities.

The agents palmed their borrowed police Colt .45s. Solo withdrew a cigarette pack and began the necessary reconfiguration to communicator. Pendleton unsnapped his belt holster, but chose to carry his rifle. Rafferty unsnapped his holster as well and loosened the revolver in its leather cradle.

A millisecond later, something dropped out of the helicopter and exploded two feet in front of the lead car. O’Brien swerved to the right, and the car jumped the curb, stopped by a concrete pillar. Pedestrians, already frightened by the explosion, now began screaming and scattering. Rafferty, in an effort to not hit any of them, slammed on the brakes and cut the steering wheel to the left. The rear end of that patrol car caught the rear end of the first. Rafferty recovered and floored the accelerator when he saw a number of large men with nasty-looking guns running toward them. One of the men fired. The sergeant gasped and clutched his upper left arm. “I’m hit, I’m hit!” He lost control of the car, which was stopped by its right front wheel plunging into a brand-new crater in the street. The four scooters screeched to a halt close by.

Solo and Kuryakin, who had been tossed around in the back seat, rapidly recovered despite renewed pain from recent injuries. “Illya, you know what to do,” Solo said forcefully.

Sky-blue eyes stared briefly into greenish-brown ones. Illya nodded tightly once, opened the door, and stepped out, picking his targets carefully before firing. He heard Napoleon shout above the commotion, “Pendleton, shoot at anyone with a weapon!” He heard two more car doors open. Chancing a quick look at the lead car, he saw O’Brien, crouching behind an open car door, firing his weapon and DeLuca sitting with chin on chest, blood trickling from his forehead.

Kuryakin skip-limped around the rear of the first squad car and fired off two shots in rapid succession. A THRUSHie from the subway dropped. Illya swung his head to find Napoleon.

Solo was also using a car door as cover. But with his attention focussed on several frontal and flanking threats, he didn’t notice one from the rear. The THRUSHman was almost within striking distance when one shot to the head felled him, his body crashing into the car on the way down. Solo turned, saw that his partner was his savior once again, and grinned at him before giving him a shove-off signal.

Illya spied a large alley only a few yards from the front of the lead car. He had to slide across the hood of the car, which left him vulnerable for a few seconds. He was almost over when he felt something tug at his arm. He looked in the direction he thought it came from and saw a THRUSHie drawing a bead on him. Before he could squeeze the trigger, the THRUSHie coughed once, then a second time with blood dribbling from both corners of his mouth. He fell to his knees and finally landed face down in the street. Illya searched the melee for his rescuer. It was Solo, wearing a now-we’re-even smirk. Illya allowed himself an internal smile. He headed for the alley. As he turned into it, he decided to look one last time at the firefight. He was pleased to see that Pendleton was covering his exit and that Rafferty had joined the fight. Then he froze in his tracks as he saw his friend slam into the car and collapse. _NOOOOO!_ Illya screamed to himself. He started to run back to Solo but Pendleton stopped him.

“Come on, gotta get you outta here,” the policeman said. “I have my orders.” He shoved Kuryakin into the alley.

The blond agent wanted to take a swing at the man, but stopped himself. He reluctantly nodded agreement, allowing himself to be pushed deeper into the alley.

“Oh shit, Mr. Kuryakin! There ain’t no way outta here!” Pendleton was on the edge of panic.

“There is _always_ a way out, Officer.” Kuryakin hoped he sounded convincing, because he needed to convince himself as well. Right now, it was very hard to care about the mission, when he faced the likelihood that his partner and friend was badly injured, or perhaps even dead.

But duty won. Kuryakin assessed the possibilities. They could go up, and travel along the rooftops. He quickly ruled that out because his leg was not quite up to jumping. They could duck into one of the buildings and hide until THRUSH gave up hunting for them. But they wouldn’t give up; plus, hiding would give the enemy too much time to blanket the area and capture would be all but guaranteed.

Kuryakin could see no other option. He cursed in Russian and kicked at a newspaper on the ground. It floated away to reveal a manhole cover. He grinned with delight and relief. “Follow me.” He bent to move the cover just enough for them to lower themselves into the hole.

“We aren’t.” Pendleton looked disgusted.

“Oh yes, we are, Officer. At least I am. I’ve done this before. I have the New York underground memorized.” He lowered himself into the hole and disappeared from view.

Pendleton choked back bile, took a deep breath, slung the rifle over his shoulder, and followed Kuryakin. On Illya’s instructions, the policeman pulled the cover back into place as best he could.

From one of the flight suit’s Velcro’d pockets, Kuryakin withdrew a small mag light. He searched for and found the tunnel markings he needed to guide them to U.N.C.L.E.. He motioned for the police officer to follow him. He didn’t bother to tell Pendleton that they were in a storm run-off tunnel.

After several turns, Illya stopped and said over his shoulder, “We are about halfway there.” Then he heard a revolver being cocked. He didn’t move.

“Turn around, you commie scum,” Pendleton growled. “With your hands in the air. But throw the Colt down first.”

Slowly, Kuryakin did as instructed. He continued to hold the light in his left hand, his right one empty. “What is this? Are you THRUSH?”

Pendleton snorted. “I don’t know from THRUSH. All I know is that I have a chance to set things right for my pops. You killed him.” He spoke with an almost serene attitude.

Illya tried to mask his Russian accent as much as he could when he said, “I do not understand.”

“My pops, my father, he died of a heart attack three years ago because you commies put atomic bombs in Cuba and aimed ‘em toward us. You scared him to death.”

“But I had nothing to do with that. I was already with U.N.C.L.E., and had been for years.”

“Don’t matter to me. I swore I’d kill a Russian bastard whenever I got the chance.” Pendleton paused. When he spoke again, his voice was shaky. “Get down on your knees, you commie bastard.”

Kuryakin inched forward. “I am not the enemy here, Pendleton.”

“Bullshit!” he screamed. Illya could hear the increased quavering in the officer’s voice. “All Russians are enemies!” As Pendleton squeezed the trigger, Illya turned to the right and went for the U.N.C.L.E. Special in the shoulder holster covered by the flight suit.

The sound of the gunshot was incredibly loud in the echo-y tunnel. Kuryakin’s eardrums throbbed painfully, and he felt a mild burning across his right deltoid muscle. In the gloom, he saw an astonished look on Pendleton’s face before the cop sank to the ground.

Kuryakin saw in the darkness behind the fallen policeman a dark shadow. Holding the light up and away from his body, he shone it on what appeared to be a head. “Napoleon!” His joy was unmistakable.

“Good to see you, too, _tovarisch_ ,” Solo said as he stepped forward.

“I thought you were…hurt.”

“Only temporary. Aren’t you glad I had us wear bulletproof vests? Bullet hit the vest, right where I have that bad bruise. Knocked me out briefly. Got a scratch on my left leg, though. Now, maybe I can use a cane for a while.”

“How did you figure out we were down here?”

“Elementary, my dear Watson. Let’s get out of here, and I’ll explain on the way. Uh, oh, looks like you have a new scratch, too.” He looked down at Pendleton and at the gaping wound in his neck. “I hope the cops will understand why I had to kill one of their own.”

#####

The manhole cover closest to the Del Floria entrance to U.N.C.L.E.-New York was now over Solo and Kuryakin’s heads.

“Open Channel L, priority scramble, Napoleon Solo for Alexander Waverly.”

Instantly, Alexander Waverly’s voice answered. “We have been waiting for your call, Mr. Solo. May I assume you have Mr. Kuryakin with you?” As always, he sounded cool, calm, almost nonchalant.

Napoleon placed the cigarette-pack communicator near Illya’s mouth. “Yes, sir. I am here.”

“Excellent, gentlemen, though I would say you are at least a day late and a dollar short.” Section 1, Number 1 cleared his throat while the two enforcement agents cringed at the reminder. “And where is ‘here’?”

“Uh, in the sewer near Del’s, sir,” replied Solo.

“Ah, Mr., er, Kuryakin. Are you able to walk and run without assistance?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“Sir, Illya - I mean Mr. Kuryakin - may have some trouble climbing out of the sewer.” Napoleon suppressed outright laughter but allowed himself to shoot Illya a teasing grin.

“Yes, sir. Mr. Solo is probably correct. He knows his sewers,” Illya countered.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, could we stay with the business at hand?” Waverly paused, during which the agents heard something behind them, a combination of sloshing and scuffling sounds. Their adrenalin levels spiked.

“Mr. Waverly,” Napoleon whispered, “we’ve been followed and need to get out _now_.”

“Mr. Kittridge has been listening and has already left my office, with a plan in mind I am sure. I will see you two in my office in a few minutes.” Waverly toggled the switch off.

“OK, Illya, you heard him. Kitt’s on his way. You get up the ladder.” Napoleon made a cradle with his two hands to boost his partner up. Illya put his right foot in it and soon his head was inches from the manhole cover. Wrapping his left arm around the top metal rung, he withdrew his U.N.C.L.E. Special. In the shadows, he saw that Solo had his pistol ready, too.

The sounds behind them got closer. The partners said nothing and hardly breathed. And they waited. Sweat beaded on their faces despite the coolness of the tunnel.

Without forewarning, the agents heard the familiar sound of smoke bombs rupturing in the street above them, followed by the soft _chuff_ s of U.N.C.L.E. weaponry firing sleep-inducing darts.

The smoke began to infiltrate the sewer. Kuryakin contorted himself so he could place his left hand over his nose and mouth. He heard the grunts of at least two men above him as the iron cover began to move. Then he heard Solo fire his weapon. Illya quickly unwound his arm and held on with his hand. He looked down as the cover came off and saw Napoleon crouched just beneath him, snapping off shots. Just as one of the men aboveground grabbed Illya by his left wrist, a bullet fired by a THRUSHman ricocheted several times before eventually knocking the Russian’s gun out of his hand. His hand went numb and he almost lost his balance. Another hand reached in and clasped his right wrist. Before he knew it, he was at street level, with someone forcing a gas mask on his head and face.

“Bloody good to see ya, mate! Now, into HQ with ya!” Illya recognized the Australian accent of Kitt Kittridge.

“But Napoleon…”

“No worries, Illya. We’ll get ‘im. Now GO!” The agents who had pulled Kuryakin out of the tunnel hustled him through the smoke to Del Floria’s entrance. He did have time to notice that THRUSH goons were everywhere, as where U.N.C.L.E. agents from Sections 2 and 3, and that the street was barely controlled mayhem. At the door to the cleaner’s, he paused, trying to see through the smoke to the manhole cover. He thought he saw two men lying on their bellies. A bullet hit him square in the chest and he crashed through the glass window behind him, pulling his fellow agents with him.

The two prone agents pulled Solo out of the tunnel, sliding him out onto the street. Another agent roughly forced a gas mask on him. The CEA looked up to see Kitt’s face beaming at him, then change to a grimace as a THRUSH bullet tore into his right leg just inches above Solo’s head. Kitt fell to his knees, but continued to fire his weapon.

Solo jumped up and grabbed Kitt under one arm. Sammy Perkins, one of the agents who had pulled Solo out, snatched Kitt under the other arm. Together, they carried the injured agent and raced for Del Floria’s.

Del was waiting for them. “Medical is waiting for you!” he shouted as he squeezed the trigger on his fully-assembled U.N.C.L.E. Special.

Solo and Perkins continued to drag the moaning and cursing Kittridge. Once through the changing room door, the receptionist clipped Solo’s badge on his flight suit. A nurse and two orderlies were there to take Kitt to the infirmary. After Solo and Perkins put Kitt on the stretcher, Solo ripped off his mask and scanned the foyer. He spied another stretcher. Mr. Waverly was on one side, and Doc Murray was on the other, examining someone.

_Illya!_ he exclaimed to himself when he saw the light blond hair. He rushed over just in time to hear Doc say, “He’s OK, Mr. Waverly. The vest saved his life. All he’ll have is a bruise. Took his breath away, too. He should be coming around any minute now.”

Waverly noted the look of deep concern on the CEA’s face, followed by one of great relief when the physician declared Kuryakin basically unharmed. He filed Solo’s reaction away in his prodigious memory. He would consider the implications at a later date. “Very good, Dr. Murray. As soon as he is conscious, I need him in Comm Lab Six.”

“I protest, Mr. Waverly. He needs some time…”

“I am aware of his needs, Doctor. But this mission is more important than his needs. However, I do promise that as soon as Mr. Kuryakin has concluded his assignment, I will order him to report to you. I trust that is satisfactory.” Waverly’s tone left no doubt that Murray would find it satisfactory.

Waverly made eye contact with Solo. “Mr. Solo, come with me, please. You may use this opportunity to fill me in on what has transpired since you left the Central Park precinct.”

“Uh, I’d be happy to, sir.” Napoleon gently squeezed Kuryakin’s hand; Waverly did not miss the action. _Yes, this partnership gives me much to consider_ , the old man thought.

#####

The blond Russian agent, near exhaustion from the exertions and pain of the last few days, walked as fast as he could limp to Communications Laboratory Six. He absentmindedly rubbed the new bruise on his chest, just above the thin knife wound Arzanotti had given him less than 24 hours before. The flight suit and the vest were gone, but he still wore the black turtleneck, brown pants, and boots given him at U.N.C.L.E.-Balzers. He longed to soak in a hot tub after a short, cleansing shower. He craved fried chicken, his latest American food passion. He could almost taste the iced vodka that awaited him in his apartment.

The door, its sensors recognizing his badge, slid open. Eight pairs of eyes watched him enter. Kuryakin paused as he passed through threshold. Annette Johnson, the agent in charge of the Comm Lab Six, sat at the console. Lisa Rogers, who was in training, stood several paces behind her. Arrayed in front of the massive computers were Alexander Waverly, the other three New York members of the Guiding Star development team, his partner (still in his flight suit and vest), and an Air Force full-bird colonel. The colonel glared at Kuryakin; he made no effort to disguise his disgust and mistrust of the Russian.

Napoleon Solo’s face, which appeared expressionless to everyone but Illya, asked the mute question of “You OK?” Illya responded with an eyebrow that raised only a millimeter from its previous position. “Yes,” it signaled to his partner.

“Ah, Mr. Kuryakin. We’ve been waiting for you. Colonel, um, Tompkins is here as the Air Force’s representative. His team launched the satellite not too long ago. Shall we get underway, Mr. Kuryakin?”

Illya bowed slightly at the waist and took his place next to Annette at the console. Annette smiled a greeting. Illya stared at the board, unseeing. He cleared his mind of distractions and summoned the code key from his formidable memory. He entered it, while Annette took notes. She, too, was impressed with the code’s simplicity.

Kuryakin’s right thumb and index finger rested on one final toggle switch. Taking a deep breath, he flipped it upward.

Nothing happened.

Kuryakin began wracking his brain, going over the code again. He checked the console for incorrect entries, but found none. Eight pairs of eyes stared at him.

Abruptly, Waverly chuckled. “Please forgive me, Mr. Kuryakin. I am afraid I neglected to have the other keys present for this. What, with all this excitement…”

“ _Other_ keys, sir?” Napoleon smirked at the irritation in Kuryakin’s voice and the red of a blush rising over Illya's turtleneck.

“Yes, Mr., um, Kuryakin. Dr. Thibeau thought it best that the entire code should not be put in jeopardy, in the unlikely event you were…coerced into parting with it. You are the central key, of course. There are two other keys. Miss, um…”

“Rogers, sir.” The tall, slender brunette standing behind Annette snapped to attention.

“Yes, of course. Would you please invite our guests to join us? I believe you know where they are.”

Lisa Rogers glided smoothly to the intercom on the wall behind her. She spoke so softly into it that even Kuryakin and Annette Johnson could not hear her.

Had it not been for the colonel, the silence in the room would have been amiable. The colonel was not bashful about showing his anger and frustration with the situation.

Presently, the lab door slid open and Salome Smythe walked in. She instantly zeroed in on Napoleon, who flashed her his most charming, delighted-to-see-you smile. She returned it. Stopping a few paces from Waverly, she said, “My companion is on her way.”

A few seconds later, the door opened again, this time to reveal Elizabeth Meadows. “Please excuse my tardiness. I was helping with the casualties in the infirmary.” Illya’s blush went full-bloom and he averted his eyes from both his partner and the nurse.

“Thank you, Nurse Meadows. I am sure your assistance was greatly appreciated. But now, to the business at hand. Miss, er, Smythe?” She nodded. “Please give Mr. Kuryakin your key.”

She smiled shyly at the old man. She walked over to the back of the console and peered over it at Illya. “Hi, Illya,” she said in her uniquely accented English. “Dr. Thibeau said to tell you ‘scrabble’ and ‘zadzev.’ He wanted me to spell that word out for you, too. It’s z-a-d-z-e-v. He said you’d understand.” She winked at him playfully and stepped away.

Kuryakin maintained a blank expression. But his brain was working on solving the riddle.

Alexander Waverly nodded at Elizabeth. In a few strides, the nurse was at the console. “Good to see you, Illya. My key is this: the number eight and ‘bronze warrior.’ Dr. Thibeau sends his best.” From the look on her face, Illya knew he did not want to nor would he spend the night alone.

He forced his attention back to the keys. This time, ten pairs of eyes, all expressing various degrees of anticipation, were figuratively glued to him.

Then it came to him. He barely smiled as he turned the microphone on. “ _Zvezda_ ,” he said clearly and distinctly into the mike. He wet his lips and whistled eight notes. Solo found them oddly familiar but could not place the melody.

The console lit up. Annette said jubilantly, “We have a go!” She clapped Kuryakin on the back. Everyone was smiling and congratulating each other. The tension in the room vanished without a trace.

The lab’s telephone rang. The colonel picked it up on the first ring. “Colonel Tompkins.” There was a short pause as he listened. He hung up and turned to the group. “The satellite is functioning as it should.”

“Excellent work, Mr. Kuryakin. The other Guiding Star team members can take it from here. You, and Mr. Solo as well, are ordered to the infirmary. If I may impose on Nurse Meadows and Miss Smythe to ensure that they get there?”

“Of course, Mr. Waverly.” Liz managed to cloak her excitement at being with Illya again with her professional tone of voice.

Kuryakin was already at the door. He offered his arm to Liz, who smiled widely and wrapped both arms around his. Napoleon and Salome copied them. As they were leaving, Waverly called after them, “Gentlemen, I expect you in my office at 9 a.m. Once Dr. Murray discharges you, your time is your own until then.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” the top two U.N.C.L.E. agents said in unison.

The two couples heard the telephone ring again. Two seconds later, they heard the colonel shout, “The satellite’s not…” Then the door slid closed.

“I’m curious, Illya,” Napoleon said to his partner’s back. “How’d you figure out the keys?”

“Jean-Paul and I were at Cambridge together for a time. We liked to play Scrabble in Russian and French. We added some homemade tiles so Russian would work better. I liked to use _zvezda_ whenever I could because it is a high-scoring word.”

“What does that word mean?” asked Salome.

“Star. And the eight notes are the ones I used to whistle when I was at a standstill in the laboratory. It is from the fourth movement of _Scheherazade_.”

Solo smacked his forehead with the heel of his free hand. “Of course! The movement with ‘Bronze Warrior’ in the title!” The CEA laughed. “Ah, clever Frenchman.”

“You two want to double-date tonight?” asked Napoleon Solo when the two couples were just short of activating the infirmary door.

Illya Kuryakin glanced at Liz Meadows before answering, “Uh, I don’t think so. But thanks.”

“Good!” exclaimed Solo as he and Salome brushed past Illya and Liz to enter the infirmary first.

**The End  
** 2000

**Author's Note:**

> This was written about twenty years ago and posted on another archive. I'm pretty sure someone beta'd this for me, but I don't remember who. I still appreciate her help.


End file.
